


Our Infinite Rhythm

by heartstrings



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Break Up-Make Up, Future Fic, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6023101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/pseuds/heartstrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Distance makes the heart grow fonder, or some shit like that.”</p>
<p>“Poetic,” Jonny says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This originally began on tumblr, but it was requested I transfer things over here for ease of reading. Thanks to all the peeps that have and continue to follow this story. Your encouragement means so much to me. :)
> 
> Some very special shoutouts:
> 
> 1) To everyone who has been following this story from the very beginning, leaving me likes, kudos, messages, and comments, your support and encouragement mean the world to me. Thank you for taking the time out of your day to tell me you enjoyed this little story of mine. I thank you so much for reading it.  
> 2) To S. aka [boodreaus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/boodreaus/pseuds/boodreaus). My fearless beta. Thank you for every single bit of constructive criticism and praise you gave me. This story is better because of you. I love you and all of your commas! ;p  
> 3) To [toewsyourheart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart). My partner in crime. I know you hate angst and yet you endured this process with me from day one. Thank you for your support, for every piece of hockey knowledge you shared, for your unwavering opinions and for giving this/me a shot. I’ll be forever grateful to you. Love ya, girl.

_2022_

Jonny moves out on a Tuesday. As much as one can move out of a home they only lived in part time. He has a surprising amount of shit leftover, bits and pieces from their seven years together. He can’t carry it all out at once, and he can’t come back after he’s left. He won’t. So he takes what he needs, the things he can’t- can’t live without: a few of his nicer suits, his favorite running shoes, a Laptop, an iPod, a gardening book his mom sent him, a picture of the two of them that used to be by their bed. Patrick’s bed.

The picture is from the night of their third cup win, after most of the festivities had died down. One of their media guys, Paul, had been snapping shots for the Hawks Instagram page. He’d meant to catch Duncs and Seabs drunkenly hugging the cup, but the camera had also caught him and Patrick in a candid moment in the background; the two of them sitting together on the locker room benches, pressed against each other all along their sides, eyes bright as they smiled at each other. Jonny can’t remember what they were talking about now, only that it was funny, and they were both laughing, drunk on champagne and adrenaline and winning winning winning. Winning again. Winning _together_ again.

*

Nothing changes. They’re both professionals and hockey comes first like hockey always does. The locker room is tense those first weeks and none of the boys quite know why, even if, Jonny knows, some of them have their suspicions.

They play and they train and they talk because they have to talk, even if it’s formal and stilted in a way they’ve never been with each other. Not even when they were stuck in a hotel room together, sharp edged and stupidly young with too much to prove and no sense when to back down. They would argue and yell and push until their faces were only a breath away, eyes fierce and cheeks flushed.

The heat between them, the fury: that was never the problem

*

At the one month mark the cracks are small enough that Jonny can ignore them. He’s gotten really good at avoiding the things he doesn’t want to see. So he pretends everything is fine and that he’s fine and that nothing is tearing him apart inside.

Patrick talks to him without looking. It’s not something Jonny’s altogether unfamiliar with, the habit Patrick has of looking everywhere but at Jonny. It’s just. Jonny’s never figured it as purposeful before. Getting Patrick’s attention, it was like a play, an action he had to strategize to get to his end goal. Except now, well, there’s no point. He can talk to Patrick just the same if Patrick’s staring off into the distance as he can when Patrick used to look at him with eyes unshuttered and sweetly open.

So they talk when they have to and it’s brittle, this bridge between them that used to be so strong. Jonny tells himself it’s working and that the team is functioning and if they’re winning games, which they are, then time will fix the rest.

It just takes time.

*

Three months in his mom calls him on a two day break between playing the Sharks and the Ducks and asks him how he’s doing.

“I’m good,” he says in French.

“You sound tired,” she says, in her calming, lilting tone.

“I’m always tired,” he laughs and winces at how forced it sounds.

“Get some rest. Send Patrick my love.”

“I will,” he lies.

He tries to sleep that night, like the night before, curled up on his side of the bed, facing center. He stares at the wall and not the bare pillow, and refuses to touch the empty space in front of him.

*

Six months in Patrick wakes him up with a phone call at three o’clock in the morning the day before they leave for a week on the road.

“I’m at your front door, come let me in. Now.”

He has a gray toque shoved over his head and his eyes are red rimmed. And the frown etched into his face is so severe it looks jagged, but he’s still so unbelievably beautiful.

“This is fucking stupid,” he says, voice shredded and raw.

Jonny rubs at his eye sockets and blinks and tries to wake up.

“Patrick.”

“No. Listen. I love you.” He says and he sounds so lost and he’s finally looking at Jonny, really looking at him for the first time in months and it’s all Jonny’s thought about, this exact goddamn moment right here, since the second they ended things.

It’s everything he wants and it doesn’t change anything.

“I love you too,” he says, because it’s true and he needs Patrick to know that. “But it doesn’t-it doesn’t change how I feel.”

He watches the way Patrick’s whole face grows hopeful for an instant before crumbling.

“We could get a surrogate. There are other ways.”

“It’s not just about that,” Jonny sighs. “You know that, we’ve been over this.”

“At least I’m trying. What the fuck are you doing?”

Patrick’s so angry he’s practically vibrating and seeing him like this makes something within Jonny seize all over. So he reaches out to cup Patrick’s arm, to set him at ease. He’s not even thinking about the fact that they don’t touch, not like this, not anymore.

As soon as Jonny’s fingertips connect with his arm Patrick’s pressed against his body, face tucked into his neck. He’s so solid and warm and real that Jonny can’t stop himself from wrapping Patrick up in his arms and holding him, just holding him for as long as this lasts.

“Have you changed your mind? Do you want to come out?” he says, mumbled softly into Patrick’s hair.

“Do you?” Patrick asks, but Jonny doesn’t answer. They both already know his answer: in this he’ll follow Patrick’s lead. He’ll always follow Patrick’s lead.

They stand in his foyer for long, quiet minutes; unmoving together.

“I…don’t know. No.” Patrick says finally, almost a whisper as Jonny nods, blank and silent and hollowed out.

“Then we always had an expiration date,” he says, and steps away. “You need to go.”

Patrick pulls him back, hands desperate and clinging to his bare skin.

“No, I need to stay so we can figure our shit out.”

But there’s nothing more to figure out, Jonny’s gone over it all a million times in a million different ways and the result is forever the same. It’s a thing he knows and can understand and have it still rip him apart inside every time he thinks about it. And he can’t keep thinking about it and not go fucking insane.

“It’s done, Kaner.” He says as gentle as he can manage. “Let it be done.”

Patrick takes a shuddering breath and then, just for a moment, folds in on himself. Jonny reaches out to steady him, or comfort him or maybe both, when his arm is smacked away.

“Fuck this. And fuck your self-sacrificing bullshit. And fuck you. FUCK. YOU.”

There’s something like coiled rage in the way Patrick’s holding himself in front of Jonny. A tightness to the way his hands are balled into fists, his arms arrow straight at his sides and jaw clenched. Neither of them are fighters. Not really, not with anything more than words and even then that was just fun or foreplay or maybe both. That was not this, not anger and hurt and the ever gaping open wound of them. Now. Here.

Jonny waits for Patrick to hit him, braces for it and feels disappointment when the impact doesn’t come. He watches Patrick deflate and then stand again. He watches Patrick’s eyes, flat and unfocused as he walks away.

Jonny doesn’t try to stop him.

This is for the best, he tells himself. This is right and this is responsible and now it’s over.

*

It was supposed to be better after that, but eight months in and it’s only gotten worse. They don’t talk so much as throw passive aggressive barbs back and forth. They don’t look at each other so much as they look through one another. They don’t play on the same ice together anymore so much as they play against and almost in spite of the other. It’s costing them goals and games and, Jonny fears, the support of their teammates, their friends.

The more he can see it affecting the team the more he feels himself drawing away.

The more he pulls back the more Patrick pushes and it’s not the way they’re built, it’s not the way they work best, two magnets repelling instead of connecting.

One night, after a particularly shitty loss to the Wild, in which they get shut out on home ice and Patrick is unable to score on their solitary breakaway, Jonny can’t help but follow him out to his car afterwards.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Patrick pauses and turns to look over his shoulder. “Sure. Whatever,” he says and starts walking again.

Jonny picks up his stride to walk beside him.

“We all fucked up.”

“I know.”

“Nobody wanted it enough tonight.” He says and doesn’t think before he’s cupping the back of Patrick’s neck with his hand, an old habit he’s been good about not returning to until now.

Patrick stiffens and then casually shrugs him off. “I know. And I’m beat and I want to go home so save the pep talk for later.”

“Okay.”

He moves towards his own car and makes the drive home. He takes a shower and drinks some water and a protein shake. He’s too tired to watch anything on T.V. or to read so he gets in bed and tries to sleep. He’s more than exhausted. His bones feel fragile beneath his skin and the space he inhabits too small to live in. 

*

A month later they’re playing the Islanders when, of all people, Patrick gets checked against the boards by Leddy and goes down hard. Jonny’s stomach twists like it does every time Patrick’s been hurt on the ice. One of the trainer’s rush over, but Patrick’s already getting up of his own volition and that, at least, is reassuring. He’s holding his left wrist as they take him to the locker room and he doesn’t return to the game that night.

Per the doc it turns out to be just a minor sprain, enough to keep Patrick out for a week, maybe two, but nothing serious. There’s a collective sigh from everyone.

The team moves on to the next city and the next game and Patrick flies home to rest while the Hawks finish out their road trip. Jonny texts him once to make sure he arrived safely in Chicago and his condo and then lets the team doctors and Patrick’s family take it from there. He worries and he tries not to worry and he mostly fails at that so he spends time with the team instead. Trevor takes him out for dinner one night and he gets drinks with Shawzy and the next. It’s…easy. So much more relaxed and fun than it’s been in months.

It’s then that Jonny realizes, a week into Patrick’s recovery, that the difference isn’t the team, it’s him. Without this ever-widening fissure between them being ripped at constantly from all sides he can settle, he can rest, he can breathe.

There’s nothing he can say that will make things better between him and Patrick. There’s nothing he can do to fix what’s been fucked up. That doesn’t mean he can’t make things a little bit easier on all of them. It doesn’t mean he won’t try.

And so that following morning he calls Brisson.

*

They make it to the playoffs by two points. It’s a relief, but it leaves an impending sense of anxiety. None of them seem to feel confident in how far they’ll go this year, most of all Jonny.

There’s three games left of the regular season before they have to start mentally preparing themselves to take on the Avs in round one. So Jonny gathers the boys around before practice to make his announcement.

Everyone is in various levels of gear, changing out of their street clothes and into their under-armour and pads. They quiet when he stands.

“I’ve already talked to Stan and Coach, but I wanted to be the first to tell all of you. Before playoffs start and everything gets hectic, as usual, I wanted to let you – I wanted to tell you guys, that after this season ends I’m leaving. I’m not re-signing with the Hawks.”

The silence that follows is almost enough to make him vomit.

He waits for an explosion of words or yells or motion, but nothing comes. He’s at a loss. They all stare at him, eyes bright and searching and Jonny, for a moment, forgets his place in all of this.

He looks up to find Patrick a few feet away, head bent down and hands moving unsteadily within his own grip. 

“I know this is unexpected. But I feel that it’s-

Patrick grabs his bag from his stall and half dressed, leg pads still strapped on, leaves the room.

“…best if I explore this opportunity.”

No one else speaks.

*

After practice Seabs is casual, as always, as he approaches. “Tazer.”

There’s a question in his eyes and a judgment Jonny’s not really ready to face. He steels himself anyway.

“It’s going to be chaotic for a while after the news breaks. I’ll try to handle as much of it as I can and I’m sorry for the rest. But you’ll be great. You always are,” he says.

Seabs frowns. “Things with Kaner have been rough this year, but you don’t have to leave. None of us want you to leave, you know?”

He’s so resolute it stings, just a little, right under Jonny’s ribcage. Seabs has been an enduring figure alongside him and Patrick since they first joined the team. And he’s been Jonny’s friend. But he’s also been one of Jonny’s favorite teammates, a mentor, someone he could always look to, to help lead after the core started to separate through trade or retirement and Sharpy, Hossa, and then, sadly Hammer were gone.

He clasps Seabs on the shoulder now, grip firm as he squeezes the muscle, “It doesn’t make a lot of sense, but it’s what I have to do right now.”

“I can’t…I can’t believe you’re doing this you fucking dipshit,” Seabs says, shaking his head.

Jonny tries for a laugh that gets caught like cotton in his throat. “Yeah.”

Across the room Patrick’s stall is still empty. He never returned to practice. And for the first time in his career he’s a healthy scratch for that night’s game.

*

They lose the series 4-1 to the Avalanche on a Monday.

Jonny does his exit interview the following morning.

That Friday he officially signs with the Winnipeg Jets.

*

As soon as the news breaks Jonny’s phone blows up.

 **From Sharpy 9:58 am:**  
_Oh Toes_

 **From Jess 12:02pm:**  
_What the fuuuuuuuck are you doing!?_

 **From Danny 6:15pm:**  
_jon jesus christ call me ok_

 **From Dave 11:32pm:**  
_lol for real?_

There’s over 200 texts, three voicemails from his parents and sixty others from various friends, family and people he’s not sure he’s ever talked to before. He deletes all of it except for one from the Jets management welcoming him to the team and setting up a meeting in the following weeks when he’ll be in back in Winnipeg. Then he calls his mom and makes platitudes and apologies for an hour. By the end she’s stopped asking ‘why’ and started planning for when he’ll get there.

Patrick sends nothing, but then, Jonny wasn’t expecting him to.

*

He avoids his phone and the internet for a few days, watches reruns of Cutthroat Kitchen makes plans with his realtor, and sleeps. He sleeps in shifts of twelve hours and doesn’t shave and eats too many carbs. When he looks in the mirror the bags under his eyes are darker, heavier than before. His shoulders slump low, weighted down and sore.

Seabs comes by one evening with sushi and they eat quietly while the Canadiens blow out the Bruins on TV. Jonny’s eyes are zeroed in on his salmon sashimi and not the disapproving glare of his friend or the sharp stinging reminder of hockey in front of him.

Eventually, when his plate is empty, Seabs clears his throat and says simply, “I’ve seen you do some dumb shit, kid, but this is leagues beyond that.”

“I know,” Jonny says.

“You know? _You know_?!? Then why the fuck are you doing it?”

“Because I have to.”

Seabs frowns, unconvinced. “Because you have to? Nobody’s making you going anywhere you don’t want to, Jon. That’s all on you. Nobody’s making you leave your home and your team and your friends and Ka-

“I can’t stay here!” Jonny breaks in, voice high and cracked.

Something clamps tight around his chest and pulls. He stands because the idea of being still suddenly feels claustrophobic.

“You’re the only one that thinks that,” Seabs says, brutal and unforgiving.

Jonny can only bow his head.

*

The night before the movers are set to come he goes to Patrick’s condo to return his key. Sticking a knife in his eye sounds more appealing than giving back the last piece of Patrick that he has, but he can’t leave still holding onto something that will only make him more miserable for having kept it.

So he takes a breath and knocks and hopes both that Patrick is and isn’t home.

“Yeah?” Patrick says when he opens the door, his face neutral.

“I thought maybe I should give you this.”

Jonny holds out the key, still attached to the ring where his own keys sit.

Patrick looks down and away, just a bare glance. Then he steps back from the open door and turns.

“You want a beer? It’s this specialty kind Jacks told me about, it’s supposed to taste like cherries I guess.”

He doesn’t wait for Jonny to answer, just continues walking in the direction of his kitchen. Jonny follows a little helplessly, pocketing the keys for now.

Patrick pulls two beers from the fridge and uncaps them, handing one over by the neck to Jonny and taking a silent drink.

This whole moment, Patrick with his sweet tooth and soft-looking hair, feet bare and raggedy sweatpants low on his hips, standing in his kitchen, drinking and talking like it’s any other day, is so incredibly normal and comforting Jonny feels dizzy.

He leans against the nearest counter and takes a long drag from his bottle, not really tasting anything at all.

Patrick hmm’s. “A little tangy, but the cherry’s there underneath, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Jonny says and then finishes his off. “How’s your family?”

Patrick takes another drink and then licks his lips, leaving them shiny wet. Jonny tries and fails not to look.

“They’re good. Found out Erica and Jason are expecting kiddo number two. Probably go up with the fam to see them in a week.”

“Congratulations. I bet she’s excited.”

Patrick smiles, small and to himself. “I think I’m more pumped about it than she is. She keeps whining about how her feet are going to swell and none of her shoes will fit and she’s always too hot and there’s never any cute maternity clothes.”

“You might not want to tell her you think she’s ‘whining’.”

“Too late, already got bitched out for that, but I told her I’d buy her whatever she wanted for the baby so I think she forgave me.”

Jonny swallows. This all feels a little too close to what he wants and can’t have and it’s hard to force the smile on his face, brittle and stretched as it already is.

The conversation drops off after that, Patrick quietly finishing off his beer as Jonny flips one of the discarded caps between his fingers.

“Oh, I forgot,” Patrick says as he slips from the kitchen and returns with a brown, crumpled paper lunch bag. “Sharpy wanted me to give you this.”

“Sharpy was here?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Uh, yeah. He wanted to visit.”

Jonny doesn’t ask why, or mention that Sharpy didn’t come to see him. He suspects he wouldn’t enjoy the answer. Instead he opens the bag and draws the object out. It’s a cartoonish miniature wooden moose, with green antlers and a solemn painted on face.

Jonny laughs.

“What’s funny?” Patrick asks, curious and…cautious.

Jonny coughs. “It’s not…When we were in Helsinki Sharpy made me go into this tourist shop with him to find something for Abby. He found like a 100 of these sitting on one of the tables, all lined up in little rows next to each other. He said they reminded him of me when I looked pissy after doing something stupid like taking a penalty or fighting with you on the bench. So he bought all of them and he’s been giving them to me ever since.”

“Like when?”

“Randomly. Whenever he thought he’d get the best laugh out of it probably.”

“Well, you are stupid a lot,” Patrick smiles, sharp and piercing, his eyes lit up.

Jonny smiles back hopelessly even as the edge of his vision goes blurry and his throat tightens up.

Patrick turns away.

“Want another beer?”

“Yep,” Jonny croaks out.

He takes the drink and doesn’t look at Patrick and tries to get his shit together. He needs to leave and he needs to say goodbye and he doesn’t know how to do either. How do you say goodbye to someone you’ve known half your life? How do you leave someone that feels so much apart of you?

He tries to imagine the enormity of what he’s about to do and it’s hard to breathe through. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Jon,” Patrick whispers, wrapping his fingers around Jonny’s wrist where he’s white-knuckling the countertop. “Hey, come on.”

There are words at the tip of his tongue; desperate, aching words that cut into him deep and deeper with every uneven exhalation. It hurts to be quiet and it’s impossible to speak. His head swims, vision a gauzy film as he blinks over and over.

He stumbles forward and catches himself on his knees, sucking in too much oxygen too quickly and unable to steady his shaking.

If he could just…if he could only…if he could…if he…

“Jonathan, stop. Jonny, look at me,” Patrick’s saying, and he’s kneeling down next to him, warm, gentle hands cupping his face, holding it close.

“I need you to slow down, okay? Can you do that for me? Please?”

Slow down, Jonny thinks. How? _How_? But Patrick’s eyes are a beautiful blue and fierce and so focused. They’re only inches apart so it makes it easy to grip two handfuls of his shirt, keep him near.

“Patrick,” he says, because it’s the only word that makes sense right now.

A soft thumb swipes over his cheek and comes away wet and it takes Jonny a moment of blinking his eyes to notice the tears that are dotting his face.

He shudders, trying to close in on himself, but Patrick won’t let him. He draws him forward and up until they’re both standing and then leads him slowly, quietly into his bedroom. A room Jonny hasn’t seen in over year, a room that still looks and smells so much of Patrick, of home that Jonny’s almost drowning it.

Every bone in his body twinges. He chokes down the sob that’s working it’s way up his throat and sits on the end of the bed; lets Patrick take off his shoes and shirt and shorts. He climbs under the covers and presses his face into the cool pillow, feels Patrick curl up behind him, bodies pressed together and Patrick’s hot breath against the nape of his neck.

He closes his eyes and sleeps.

At some point in the night, before dawn, he wakes to find Patrick watching him, eyes half lidded and expression open. It’s like the warm glow of a dream when they kiss what with the way it lights him up inside. Their movements are measured and unhurried as they tangle together under the sheets, Patrick guiding Jonny on top of him and between his legs. They kiss and kiss and kiss and don’t speak. Patrick’s moans are quieter than usual, hushed, as Jonny pushes inside. It’s easy to move in sync, to find the spots that make each other fall apart. When they come it’s within a handful of minutes, gasping and clutching at skin, utterly wrecked.

Afterwards, Patrick rolls out from underneath Jonny and makes his way to the ensuite bathroom.

“Be gone when I get out,” he says, but doesn’t turn around.

Jonny stares at the strong lines of his naked back, his broad shoulders and the golden curls just above them.

 _Love you_ , he thinks, and doesn’t say.

He leaves the key on Patrick’s dresser on his way out.


	2. Chapter 2

The summer is quiet. He spends it mostly exercising and fishing with Dan. He stays with his parents until he finds a place of his own. A chic two story in South St. Boniface, just twenty minutes from the MTS arena. The waterfall in the front yard is a bit much, but he loves the expansive back yard deck with a space off to the side for a small garden. 

There are boxes he had the movers place in the corner of his bedroom. They’re filled with photos and his old Blackhawks gear and too many memories. He doesn’t unpack any of them.

*

A week before training camp begins David comes to visit. He brings his wife Margot and Jonny’s six year old niece, Sunny.

They go out on Jonny’s boat and he helps teach Sunny, who’s afraid to put her face in the water, how to swim.

Margot makes strawberry crepes and doesn’t let them talk about hockey and speaks to Jon only in French. They all tease him incessantly about his stupid waterfall and refuse to even try his kale smoothies. They set him at ease in a way not much else has in months.

“So have you been seeing anyone?” Margot asks late one night after Sunny’s in bed and they’re sitting outside by Jon’s fireplace, half drunk on vodka and lemonade.

Jonny makes a face at her. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

She laughs. “You left Chicago to make a new start, yes?”

Jonny sighs. She’s not wrong, not exactly, but it’s more complicated a thing to explain than he thinks he’s even capable of articulating.

He scratches the back of his neck and tries to draw the right words forward.

“I left...because it was what was best.”

“For you?” she asks.

“For Patrick Kane,” David answers. He’s got his drink in his left hand and his phone in the right. He’s been clicking away the last five minutes, playing a game or texting, Jonny doesn’t know. He hadn’t realized David was even listening in until now.

“No,” Jonny says, frowning, because that’s not the sum of things, only a part. And it feels wrong to pin it all on Patrick, but he can’t think of anything else to say in defense and the conversation stills.

Margot nods like that cements David’s opinion. _Great._

Jonny shakes his head. He’d like to not talk about this now or ever. Preferably never.

Margot looks at him, eyes big and sad. 

Jonny sticks his tongue out at her until she grins. “You’re almost empty there. You want another drink?”

He’s already up out of his seat and taking her glass by the time she answers yes. He makes it to the sliding door when David calls his name.

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder, or some shit like that.”

“Poetic,” Jonny says, dryly, and takes comfort in his brother’s grin.

*

Training camp comes and goes. Pre-season follows. And then it’s the night of the Jets season opener, on home ice. They’re playing against the Flames. 

It’s weird to step out on the ice in blue without a letter on his jersey. All of the drive to lead, to guide, to direct others, it’s still there right underneath his skin, but he hesitates to sink into it. The first and second period feel off and when he goes to the locker room during intermission he sits his ass down and tells himself it’s just another hockey game. He’s played thousands of hockey games and this will be one more. And he can do this, he can do this, he’s going to fucking do this.

Sixteen minutes into the third period he scores and the crowd explodes.

*

The press descend the moment they see him.

“Game winning goal for your first game here playing with Winnipeg, how does it feel?”

Jonny wipes at the sweat running down his brow. “That was an amazing assist from Wheels. I just had to tap it in really. Glad that we could pull off the win there at the end.”

“What did you think of the reception tonight? And how do you think that will translate for the fans throughout the rest of the season?”

“It’s been unbelievable so far. The fans have been so welcoming. For right now I’m trying to take it one day at a time, but I’m very excited about this opportunity.”

Maybe if he repeats it enough times he’ll be able to convince himself it’s the truth.

*

He means to make a clean break once he's truly settled in Winnipeg. There are maybe factors, however, he didn't consider about this plan. Feeling out of place on a new team, unbalanced in a new environment, this was something he knew would happen. Change is hard. Change is always hard. It’s a constant he's lived with since he was fourteen and watching the only home he'd ever known disappear in the distance. He's accustomed to the ache of it. 

Missing everyone, missing the team, missing Patrick? He hadn't counted on the breadth of that, the way it holds him. He feels separated from his own life, from himself. 

*

Sometimes he watches the Hawks games. He tells himself he won’t. That he’ll be busy with his own games and travel and publicity and maybe getting a life. 

He makes it one week.

He makes it two weeks before he’s scheduling his off days around them and watching with an intensity that he doesn’t want to linger on.

*

“You need to get out,” Dan says one Sunday night.

They’re sitting around his flat screen drinking lite beer after having eaten a meal of what was rather unfortunately overcooked salmon and undercooked asparagus. On TV the Devils are decimating the Hawks 6 to 2 with three minutes left in the second period.

Jonny doesn’t take his eyes off the screen when he replies. “I get out. I went out with some guys from the team last weekend. We went out to a club on the road the week before that.”

Dan may or may not sigh. “I mean you need to relax, meet some new people, maybe get laid.”

“I’m busy.”

“Not too busy to sit around with me and watch your old team for the third time this month.”

“Why are you giving me shit?” he says, pissy and tired and still fucking hungry.

Dan raises his arms placating from where they were resting on his legs. “I’m trying to help.”

“You’re not,” Jon bites out. 

“Hey, don’t chew my fucking head off, okay. I get you’re still fucked up about things. I just think you’d make this whole situation easier on yourself if you tried to, you know, move on,” he replies, a little loud and almost hurt.

It’s maybe more heated than what Dan deserves, but he’s been getting the same complaints and lectures and questions from his family and his friends and the media. It’s so exhausting. Dan’s his best friend, the guy who’s been supportive through all of Jonny’s stupid decisions and risky choices and hard earned mistakes. He’s never judged Jon, not even when Jon’s almost certainly deserved it, and that it’s happening now, of all times, when he’s feeling the most threadbare and thin is a little too much to take in.

The game comes back on and they watch in silence until intermission.

Jon wants to say _I am, I will_. He can’t.

*

In November they play the Hawks in Chicago.

It’s not a surprise, he knew this was coming, thought he was prepared. Yet the moment they arrive at the United Center he’s overwhelmed with a sickening sense of deja vu. His skin tingles, little pinpricks all over, sharp and biting. He’s itchy and uncomfortable and restless in a way he doesn’t want to be familiar with.

He expects boos when he steps out onto the ice for warm ups. He expects shouted profanities or even a thrown jersey. What he doesn’t expect, what he isn’t ready for is a sort of muted indifference. It feels like their eyes all over him, not hostile or hateful, but all the passion, the devotion is absent.

Jonny skates around and bumps into Buff, shoots some goals and keeps his eyes from the crowd, avoids the other end of the ice.

Back in the locker room before the game begins he sits in his stall and visualizes the puck on his tape, in front of his skates, in the net. He gives his words to the boys, quick and efficient and lines up to go back out. 

There’s nothing he can’t do as long as he tries. He repeats it and repeats it and repeats it.

No big deal. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, and skates out to the face off dot.

He’s got this.

That’s when they announce a tribute video in Jonny’s name.

*

Forcing himself to watch is brutal. A thousand tiny cracks bleeding out until he feels almost numb watching himself as a baby on skates, a toddler, a teenager, a rookie, a captain, a Stanley Cup champion. With every successive image there is Seabs and Duncs and Hammer and Hossa all next to him. And, of course, Patrick, always Patrick.

The urge to look away burns at the back of his eyes, but he knows there are cameras all over him, watching him watch his past. He sneaks a brief glance at the Hawks bench and notices that most of them are watching too, except for Patrick, who’s head is tucked down, mouth on one of his glove as he chews at the material.

He’s anxious and if Jonny were to make a bet he’d guess that the nails under those gloves are bitten down and raw underneath; no one around to make him stop.

Not even...

Jonny locks his jaw and watches the rafters instead and the many championship banners that adorn it. When it ends there are cheers and a few boos as he waves to the crowd, smile tight and wide.

He takes the first face off against some kid he doesn’t recognize wearing the number ten. Another ghost he can’t escape. Another reminder.

*

The first period starts off strong for the Jets with them controlling puck possession and firing off the first few shots on goal. Things level off at the half way mark when two different Hawks draw penalties. There’s an edge to the Jets gameplay that Jonny’s not as familiar with, a physicality that he’s trying to adapt to when he’s played most of his career focused around the mental workings of it all.

The more his teammates throw hits, the more they lose possession. It happens in small increments until towards the end of the first, two and a half minutes left, Ehlers dekes around Anisimov to get Jonny the puck in the Hawks end. The pass isn’t smooth, nor accurate, and Jonny’s forced to retrieve it below the goal line. When he turns to bring it back out, he sees Patrick up near the blue line, stationed where he usually is, eyes zeroed in and ready. For a moment it’s like Jonny’s eighteen again, twenty-one, thirty, and he’s playing this game he loves with this person who’s meant everything to him. So it’s natural, effortless, when Patrick’s stick taps the ice to spring him with the breakout pass. It’s like muscle memory, the ease with which it happens, how right it feels. 

Patrick’s eyes widen a fraction, staring back at Jonny in suspended shock before he’s vaulting forward and scoring the first goal of the night.

*

After a tense twenty minutes in the locker where his teammates and coach and even the goddamn trainers are looking and talking to him like he’s lost his mind, the second period is off to a quicker start. 

The Hawks defense has settled into their game, which usually means one of two things, they’ve turned up the volume or they’ve slowed down just enough that they begin to expose a few weaknesses. 

That’s when Jonny parks himself in front of Crow and waits for Buff to bury one from the blue line.

He skates to the celly circle to give and receive head pats, something like a smile easing it’s way across his mouth for the first time that night. 

A few feet away Patrick’s standing there staring at him, his expression on fire.

*

Tied for the third and with both teams trying to fight to get the edge, Patrick comes out flying. He’s all over the ice, slipping in between the Jets defense and dangling the puck away from anyone that even tries to get close. He’s toying with them, Jonny thinks, with us.

It’s Patrick in playoff mode, it’s Patrick in a game seven, it’s Patrick refusing to lose.

Jonny’s never been on the other side of this before, not in Chicago, not in front of Hawks fans and his friends. There’s a helplessness welling up within him, a need to seize back control that’s filling him with an impatient fury. So when Patrick earns a breakaway with four minutes left on the clock as Jonny’s coming on a short change, he’s only thinking stop, stop, fucking stop, as he reaches his stick out. The slash to Patrick’s hand doesn’t keep him from scoring, but it does make his eyes brighter and grin tauntingly wicked. 

Whatever tenuous hold Jonny had on his temper is gone in a puff of smoke and before he can check himself he’s jamming Patrick into the boards behind the net, trapping him there so he can make sure Patrick doesn’t duck away from this, from him.

“Did you enjoy that free goal?” he spits, pushing their visors together, hand holding Patrick’s bicep still.

Patrick smirks, almost cheerful as he leans in. “Do you enjoy being irrelevant? Because you are. Now get the fuck off me.”

The sick twist in his gut makes him grind his teeth to keep from screaming.

Before he can answer a linesman and Seabs and Wheels are there to break it up, jumping in between them and pulling them apart.

Jonny stares at the ice as he skates away, Chelsea Dagger still booming throughout the arena.

*

With a game in St. Louis the day after tomorrow and another in Colorado two days after that the team packs up after the loss and heads to the hotel for the night.

Jonny’s bone deep tired, heavy and cold. He talked to the media about the loss, but he can’t remember what he said. He knows he’s basically on everyone’s shit list right now, that he needs to consider ways of making up for his fuck ups tonight. He takes a shower instead, the water scalding and just this side of painful, mind a mix of too many thoughts to be blank and too chaotic to be at peace.

Flipping on the TV he switches it to HBO and turns the volume down low then pops two Excedrin before lying down. He’s got his iPad on the nightstand with game tape he needs to review, but he’s so exhausted sleep is a long awaited reprieve.

The knock on his door startles him out of his dozing. It’s Patrick, a bag in his hand and a weary tilt to his shoulders.

Jonny opens the door and steps back.

“I um,” Patrick says, seemingly taken off guard by Jonny waving him inside. He goes hesitantly and stands in the middle of the room, holding up the bag. “Some of your things from my place. Here.”

“I don’t want them.” Jonny says bluntly.

Patrick’s eyes snap up to his, eyebrows raised. “Well, I don’t want them.”

“Then throw them away.”

“Why didn’t you just take them when you left?” Patrick barks and Jonny flinches, turns away.

He hears the bag hit the ground and then Patrick’s in front of him, right up in his face. “No, you don’t get to do that, asshole. You left. _You. Left._ So you look me in the fucking eye and you take your shit,” he bites out, pushing Jonny until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he’s forced to sit down.

He reaches out, cupping Patrick’s waist, trying to calm. “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck you.”

“ _Patrick_.”

“Don’t.”

“I am,” Jonny breathes, dragging him close and pushing his face into Patrick’s midsection, arms wrapping around him tight.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Patrick snarls, voice rough as he shoves his hands in Jonny’s hair and clings to him.

Patrick’s shirt is soft against Jonny’s cheeks and it smells of sweat and old cologne. He can’t help but rub himself against Patrick, trying to soak up that smell, any little piece he can grasp onto.

He’s not surprised when he feels Patrick hard in his jeans, as fucked up as this is he’s affected too, being this close after all these months. Maybe it’s wrong that he hasn’t moved on, that he’s still living on this trip wire always ready to go off at the slightest touch from Patrick even after everything that’s happened. He’d have a harder time caring in this moment if Patrick weren’t here in this room with him, tangled up in his embrace and hot all over.

“Can I?” Jonny asks, palm moving over Patrick’s clothed dick.

Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, head tipped back like he knows he shouldn’t but is unwilling to stop himself. “Yes.”

Jonny pulls back enough to undo Patrick’s belt and jeans, yanking them down with his underwear just below the beautiful curve of his ass. He’s seen Patrick’s dick too many times to count, touched it and tasted it and worshipped it until Patrick was a sobbing mess beneath him. He wishes he had the time to do that now, but Patrick’s looking down at him with a mix of heat and trepidation and that’s not what Jonny wants. He needs to make this good for him, to erase the shadows under Patrick’s eyes and the strain that’s making all of his edges sharp. So he swallows him down, as much of him as he can in one go, using his hand to pump the rest.

Patrick moans, eyes rolling back in his head as Jonny’s tongue curls around the crown and then down the length. He bobs back and forth, drawing Patrick’s dick farther into his mouth with each movement. The fingers raking through his hair cause him to groan and take more of Patrick inside, bumping the back of his throat.

“Jon,” Patrick breathes, tugging at his hair and drawing him closer.

It’s so good Jonny’s own dick is throbbing in his pants, the tip wet and leaking inside of his boxer briefs. He wants to touch and be touched so bad it almost hurts.

“Fuck my mouth,” he says, when he pulls off to take a breath. “Please?”

Patrick’s panting, gaze dark as he runs a thumb over Jonny’s lips, stopping at the little scar on the top. He traces it tenderly. “Yeah. Yeah, Jonny.”

Gripping himself he slowly feeds Jonny his dripping dick until Jonny’s face is almost pressed against Patrick’s flat belly. He pumps slowly, building up speed as he holds Jonny in place with one hand still in his hair and the other placed around the nape of his neck.

Patrick sounds more and more wrecked by the second, hips undulating as he fucks in hard enough that Jonny’s eyes start to water. He doesn’t care, is lost to all of the sensation as he grabs the globes of Patrick’s ass and urges him on.

He lets Patrick take what he wants. He can’t – he can’t give Patrick what he needs, but he can give him this; his mouth, his body, his touch.

“Oh shit, _oh god_ ,” Patrick gasps, rhythm stuttering.

Jonny knows he’s close, right there at the edge. He runs two fingers along the crack of Patrick’s ass, pressing in and circling around his hole until Patrick cries out and comes, spilling down Jonny’s throat.

He barely gets a chance to take a breath before Patrick’s pushing him down into the mattress and licking the taste of himself out of Jonny’s mouth. The kiss is rough, teeth clacking and lips not so much touching as smashed together, bruising and unforgiving. It’s blistering. Jonny never wants it to end, but when Patrick slips a sweaty hand down his pants and begins jerking him off he can’t help breaking away to moan.

The moment might last ten minutes or an hour or half a day, Jonny can’t tell and he doesn’t care. When his orgasm hits Patrick’s pressed all along his side and almost on top of him, touching him as much their clothes will allow. It’s messy and easily one of the dumbest decisions Jonny’s made in the last five hours, but with Patrick still kissing him like this, like he needs Jonny to breathe, like nothing else in the world matters it’s everything, it’s perfect.

As he comes down, breath settling and body lax, Patrick flops back to lie beside him. He discreetly wipes his hand on the bedspread and blinks up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. The hotel room heater is humming in the background.

“I should go,” he says after a beat.

“Okay,” Jonny murmurs.

It’s another few minutes before Patrick’s heaving himself up and walking over to the bathroom. The light goes on and then the faucet and when Patrick comes out he looks as he did when he showed up at Jonny’s door, like nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Jonny expects him to leave without saying goodbye. It’s more than what he deserves.

Instead Patrick surprises him by shuffling his feet in front of the bathroom and catching his gaze. “What I said earlier…I didn’t…you’re not…”

“I am. Without you I am,” Jonny says.

A few seconds later the door clicks softly shut.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of November is eventful. The press refuse to relent about the goal he gave away in Chicago or his scuffle on ice with Patrick, his lack of focus, his offensive struggles this season, his development with a new team. It’s not that he doesn’t expect the questions or the heat being directed his way. It’s more that he hadn’t accounted for how intense the media’s focus on his transition would be.

“I’m just another player,” he tells his Dad over Thanksgiving break. “I’m not even a captain anymore.”

They’re sitting at the breakfast bar post lunch, the sun streaking in through the blinds even though it’s flurrying outside.

“You’ve never just been another player, Jon. You know that.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, groans into the palm of his hand. “I can’t be who they want me to be.”

“And who do they want you to be?”

Jonny looks up to see if he’s being placated, but his dad appears genuinely curious so he says, “The face of their franchise, their PR ticket, the media darling, their fucking dancing monkey. And I can’t. I’m too old for that horseshit. I just want to play hockey.”

His dad scoots back from his seat, the legs of the bar stool squeaking along the tile. He pats Jonny on the shoulder, grin kind as he says, “I’ve never seen you walk away from a challenge, not in your whole life; don’t start now.”

He nods because he doesn’t want to argue, but his head feels full of cotton, thoughts a heavy cacophony of too late, too late, too late.

*

They play the Hawks twice in December, the first time it’s on the second half of a back to back. They don’t win and after they leave Chicago before Jonny’s able to even really catch his breath, another defeat heavy in the air. 

The second time is in Winnipeg on a Wednesday evening. 

Tuesday afternoon Jonny receives a text after he arrives home from practice.

**From Seabsie Boy 12:48pm:**  
_Want steak. Staying at Delta. Come pick us up for lunch in fifteen._

It’s barely enough time to shower, change, and make it downtown by one. When he arrives it’s Seabs and Shawzy and Patrick waiting for him. By the look on Patrick’s face he’s neither surprised nor pleased by Jonny’s appearance, but they pile into his Prius anyway and head off.

Jonny takes them to The Keg where they’re seated in the back at a half booth. Seabs grabs the seat farthest from Jonny forcing Patrick to either sit beside or across from him. He chooses beside and is careful to keep both his arm and leg from touching anything but the table. This would usually be the part where Jonny would take the opportunity to spread out as far as possible, thigh and knee encroaching on Patrick’s space, pressed in and close. Patrick would pretend to be put out, but only push back enough to keep the pressure warm, anchoring.

The absence of it chills him, and he jiggles at his leg to shake it off.

Patrick’s head is stuffed in his menu, the curls at the back of his head still slightly damp from what was probably his own recent post-practice shower.

“I don’t know. She tells me she wants to fuckin’ redo Rebecca’s room in purple and gold, but if we’re moving at the end of the season I don’t really see the point,” Shawzy’s saying when Jonny clues into the conversation.

“You’re moving?” he cuts in.

“Yep,” Shawzy nods, chewing around the bread roll stuffed into his mouth. “To Lincoln Park, just down the street from your old place.”

“Oh,” Jonny says, because there’s not much to add to that.

Seabs is eyeing him in that specific way that means he’s searching Jonny’s reaction. Patrick still hasn’t glanced up from his menu.

The waiter comes and takes their order and Jonny asks for a beer, needs something to take the edge off just enough so he can eat and try to relax. The strain of trying to pretend everything is normal is galvanizing. He’s homesick for these people, for this comfort, for these moments that are so rare now. Thinking back on how he used to take them for granted is a bitter pill in the pit of his stomach.

He forces a smile and listens to Shawzy talk. He talks through most of lunch, recounting personal stories and the on-goings of the team and the woes of being a dad until finally, after their empty plates are taken away Seabs slaps Shawzy hard on the back and says, “Christ, Shawzer, take a breather, will ya?”

Shawzy immediately chokes on his water. “Why are you such an asshole?”

“That’s a great question,” Jonny smirks.

Seabs rolls his eyes. “Did you hear, they gave Kaner the A?”

The table goes quiet at this and Jonny almost misses the way Patrick’s eyes flicker up at Seabs, shockingly blue and piercing, before they settle downward again.

“I hadn’t, no,” Jonny replies. “Congrats.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Patrick nods. 

If it was a comment meant to engage them in conversation it falls flat. Jonny can’t remember the last time he was lost for words with anyone, especially Patrick, but he is, now, here. He wipes a sweaty palm over his jean covered thigh, bears his nails into flesh until it stings

Seabs sighs.

The bill comes.

Shawzy, once again, starts talking.

*

Patrick takes shotgun on the way back to the hotel. Jonny doesn’t think much of it until he’s pulling up to the drop off spot and Patrick doesn’t get out.

“Show me your place,” he says, expectantly.

There’s a twitching muscle in his jaw that Jonny knows means Patrick’s already decided this is happening. Jonny doesn’t fight it. Mostly because he knows he vary rarely wins against a determined Patrick, but also because he’ll take these scraps, these brief moments of time and soak them up. It’s all he can have and he’s as desperate for them now as he was when he was young and reckless and naive. The only difference is now he knows there are a finite amount of them left.

Patrick’s quiet during the tour, almost unimpressed. Jonny shows him around anyway, the basement that’s refurbished, the open deck with the fireplace, even the stupid waterfall. He talks like a realtor about the fancy amenities in the kitchen and the upstairs bathroom. The multi-spray shower is especially lovely. Did you know it has eight different settings? Eight!

“So that’s about it,” he says, when they’ve finally, thankfully circled back around to the front of the house.

“It’s very…you,” Patrick says.

Jonny scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

The silence falls awkward and stilted between them. Again.

“Right. Well, if you’re finished I can take you back now,” Jonny says, tense all over.

He feels like he’s sitting on the edge of a wire, like a rubber-band stretched too thin and ready to snap when Patrick steps into his space and presses their mouths together. It isn’t sweetly tender or yielding, nor is it biting and harsh, it’s a challenge. A dare Patrick’s posing with his lips and his tongue: I can. Can you?

Jonny gives into it, doesn’t think, doesn’t break away to ask questions, of which there are many. Instead he draws Patrick into the circle of his arms and licks into his mouth deep, so that they can barely breathe for the way they’re so connected.

Patrick leads him to the couch in the living room at some point, pushes him down into the wide-set cushions and crawls between his legs. Their movements become more frantic after that, less constrained as they tear at clothing, fingers touching bare flesh.

Once their dicks are free Patrick wraps a hand around them both and begins to pump, gathering precome to slick the way. Jonny moans, cupping Patrick’s ass to bring him closer. He looks up through heavy lidded eyes to find Patrick’s focus centered on where their bodies are touching, the intimate way he has them both clasped in his grasp.

“Kiss me,” Jonny pleads, arching up off the couch to reach Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick won’t look at him. Instead he firms his grip, making sure to slide over the sensitive head of Jonny’s dick. It’s too much and it’s just right, heat spooling out within him. 

He reaches out to touch Patrick’s face, tilt his chin up so he can look into those blue eyes. He’s so close. _So close_.

Patrick shakes his hand away and captures his mouth, sucking at his bottom lip, teeth digging in sharply. The spark of pain chokes a low groan from his throat and then Patrick’s coming, covering them in hot, white ropes and spreading it down over them both. Seeing Patrick’s face melt into bliss has Jonny following soon after.

*

It’s quiet in the aftermath once again. Jonny’s got his eyes closed, half melted into the couch and limbs akimbo. Patrick doesn’t stay close this time, already up and moving away. He pads out of the room and is gone for long enough that Jonny expects him to be dressed and ready to go before he’s even caught his breath.

He’s wrong.

Patrick’s still rumpled and sock footed when he returns. He throws Jonny a warm, wet washcloth and takes a seat at the far end of the couch, snatching the remote and flipping on the television.

Jonny cleans himself perfunctorily and redresses, sits up. Patrick goes through every channel twice before stopping on the Food Network. There’s two episodes of Grocery Wars and then Chopped. Jonny watches with his attention split, eyes roaming over Patrick’s form, the pale column of his throat, the casual tilt of his shoulders, the restless fidgeting of his hands.

He stretches out one leg onto the coffee table, extending the other down the couch until his foot his pressing into Patrick’s thigh. He wiggles his toes.

“Why don’t they ever season their food enough?” Patrick asks, directing his question towards the TV. “I mean, who doesn’t like salt on their food, besides you?”

He pushes Jonny’s foot away with little effort.

“Hey, I like salt. I love salt. But I moderate myself so I won’t have a heart attack by the time I’m forty.”

“I moderate myself,” Patrick says, frowning.

Jonny snorts. “Sure you do. Besides, when’s the last time you cooked a meal for yourself, eh?”

“Oh, fuck off. We used to cook together all the time,” he says, the barest hint of a grin etched at the corner.

Jonny finds his own mouth curving, despite himself, and then he feels it; the soft brush of a thumb circling the knob of his ankle in repetition. His skin tingles pleasantly.

It must be an unconscious motion because the moment Patrick realizes what he’s doing he freezes. Then he’s up, standing and turning off the TV. He leaves the room. Jonny suspects he wants to go so he stands as well, moves in search of his shoes. He makes it five feet before Patrick’s back, throwing a tube of lube at his chest and pulling his shirt over his head.

“I want you to fuck me over the back of the couch, okay.”

It’s not really a question, but then Patrick already knows Jonny’s answer.

“Now?” he asks, for clarification purposes.

“No, later. _Yes_ , right now,” Patrick says, pissy, and licks over his lips making them glossy and pink. 

His eyes are filled with daggers and it’s like venom sinking into Jonny’s skin when he turns away.

This time it’s not frenzied or hurried, but fierce and fervid and raw. 

When it’s over Jonny’s thighs are shaking from holding them both up. Patrick’s panting, slumped forward. They both hiss as Jonny slips free from Patrick’s body. One of Jonny’s hands trails along Patrick’s spine until Patrick shivers and abruptly steps away.

He collects his clothes and disappears again. A minute later Jonny hears the shower turn on.

He’s gone long enough that Jonny’s settled in the kitchen looking at a sushi take out menu, planning what movie to watch for the evening when Patrick emerges, dressed and phone against his ear. 

The reality crashes in around him.

“What’s your address?” Patrick asks.

“I can drive you,” Jonny says numbly, setting aside the menu.

Patrick shakes his head. “I’ll take a cab,” he replies, and then he’s gone.


	4. Chapter 4

In January the Jets go on a nine game winning streak just to turn around in February and lose seven in a row. They’ve slipped below a wild card spot. Everyone is tense.

Jonny tries to be reassuring; he knows the upsides of staying calm. If they can play the right way and get back on track they’ll be fine. It’s too early to panic. But this team is filled with mostly young players, many of whom have yet to see a season beyond April, let alone a deep playoff run. They’re eager and they’re impatient. It’s not the best combination in these situations.

The boys filter their stress into bickering and shit-talking, which is how Jonny hears it.

He’s in one of the trainer’s rooms, waiting for Terry to show up and scrolling through twitter on his phone when voices out in the hallway catch his attention.

It’s Veebee and Mac. They’re troublemakers, but mostly harmless. They like to play pranks on the rookies and complain about drills. They stay out too late most nights, but they’ve never missed practice or seriously underperformed in games so Jonny lets them be, until now.

He catches onto what they’re saying mid-conversation when he hears Justin Macintosh ask, “What’s wrong with your leg?”

“It’s just tight from yesterday,” Veebee says, sighing.

“Did you get hit?”

“Yeah. You didn’t see Duchene during that play on the half-boards in the third? Speared the shit out of me, and no call. Fucking faggot. Linesman, too, fucking standing right there.”

“HEY,” Jonny barks before he can stop himself, already out in the hallway and up in Veebee’s face.

Him and Mac look up at Jonny startled, but unworried.

“What?”

“Don’t use that word. Be better than that.”

“Why?” Veebee asks around a grin, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t like me talking about your fuckbuddy that way? Did I hit a nerve, _Tazer_?” 

He says Jonny’s nickname like it’s a piece of gum under his shoes, a dirty afterthought.

Jonny’s gut clenches, his throat feels thick. He can walk away from this if he wants. He doesn’t owe this asshole a single second of his time. He can walk away from this.

He can walk away.

“He’s just my buddy,” he says. “But if you want the truth, yes.”

“Yes?” Veebee’s eyebrows rise disinterestedly.

“Yes, I’m gay. And don’t ever call me a faggot.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

At six feet, five inches Vlad Benoit is not a small man, and he has about thirty pounds on Jonny. He uses his height advantage to lean over him, into him. He probably thinks this makes him intimidating. 

Jonny doesn’t blink. “You did. Don’t do it again.”

There are consequences being implied and not said, not because Jonny can’t say them, no, he’d very much like to ream Benoit out. He can’t, however, risk alienating his other teammates or worse, demoralizing the entire locker room.

He’s said what he needed to say, but he won’t back away. He won’t back down.

Veebee stares at him darkly for an endless minute, only inches apart, before he shoulders his way past Jonny and back down the hall.

The look of disgust in his eyes stays with Jonny all day, but it’s the best he’s felt in months so he takes it as a win.

*

He’s never alone.

When he’s not with the team or involved in a team related activity his family is always around now. It’s suffocating in it’s own way, but he loves his parents and he won’t complain. They sacrificed more than enough to earn his deference. So he golfs with his dad on his off days and takes his maman to brunch when he can.

He has dinners with Dan.

He talks to David on the phone, sometimes Margot, sometimes Sunny.

He has goes out for drinks with teammates.

He participates in three different charities.

He plants some vegetables in his garden.

He trains.

He watches someone else wear the C.

Sometimes he touches the place it used to be on his other jersey, like a phantom limb.

He eats.

He sleeps.

He watches Hawks games.

He watches Patrick.

He’s fine. He’s _fine_.

*

In April they finally beat the Hawks 4-3 in a shootout in Chicago. The crowd is quiet, unhappy, and it dampens the buzz of winning.

Patrick shows up at his hotel room again and they swap rough, sloppy blowjobs without even saying hello. After, he gets up to rummage through his bag so he doesn’t have to watch Patrick dress. He wants to leave the room so he doesn’t have to watch Patrick do that either.

Instead he makes himself stay still.

“What are we doing?” Patrick asks, low and soft.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Jonny doesn’t answer right away. He isn’t sure what to say or how to say it or if there are words to express the mess inside of his head.

“I don’t…I don’t know,” he says, finally. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Patrick says, and he sounds steady, but his hands are a twitching, restless swirl of movement. His eyes are far away.

*

They make it all the way to game seven against Calgary just to lose in regulation. It’s disappointing. It’s frustrating. There’s talk of a change in management, of a change in leadership, of some serious trades over the summer. Jonny answers the media’s questions with as much aplomb and diplomacy as he’s ever used. He cleans out his locker and says his goodbyes to the boys he knows he won’t see until training camp.

Then, a week later, he’s on a plane to Finland to compete in Worlds.

*

It’s early afternoon in Tampere when he and Tavares arrive. The jetlag hasn’t quite kicked in, but Jonny can feel the fatigue hovering over him like a greasy thin film of sweat and grime. He’s not sure how long the flight was, thirteen hours, fourteen maybe. All he knows is he’s ready to take a long shower and stretch out in bed.

When they get to the hotel the lobby is flooded with incoming players. Jonny has to work his way to the front of the line to get his room assignment and check in. The clerk’s English is perfect, but it’s loud, the room filled with too much chatter and moving bodies. It’s a relief when he can break away from the crowd to head toward the elevators. There’s a group of Americans standing off to the side, talking. If they’re hanging out or waiting for the elevator Jonny can’t tell, but the closer he gets he can make out some familiar faces, Phil Kessel, Nathan Blackered, and Patrick.

He knew Patrick was going to be here, of course he knew, but it still feels disorienting. It’s a rush to the head realizing Patrick and him are going to be in such close proximity for the next two weeks. 

He considers going over and saying hello, but he’s tired and technically the enemy and probably not Kessel or Blackered’s favorite person right now. Which is why it’s a surprise when Jonny steps on the elevator that Patrick steps in behind him and presses six on the control panel.

The doors close with only them inside.

Jonny shuffles until he’s standing at the back wall, Patrick right beside him.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Patrick mumbles, eyes a sleepy blue-gray and his mouth curved up in the corners. “You just get in?”

Something inside Jonny’s chest thuds against his ribcage at the relaxed lines of Patrick’s expression. He gestures awkwardly to his luggage and Patrick laughs.

“Oh right. Ignore me. I haven’t slept in like a day and a half.”

“Why not?”

Patrick shrugs. “There was a layover. All of the hotels were booked and you know how I can’t really sleep out in the open.”

Jonny nods because he does know. He knows all of Patrick’s quirks and habits and tiny idiosyncrasies. But they don’t talk about before anymore. Or they haven’t. 

He doesn’t know if it’s a slip on Patrick’s part because he’s exhausted or if something changed during that last night in Chicago. He wants to ask.

He says, “You got practice or team meetings tomorrow?”

“No, thank god. You?”

Now it’s Jonny’s turn to shrug. “Well, it’s Babs.”

“And Sharpy,” Patrick adds.

“Sharpy?”

“You didn’t hear? He’s assistant coaching for you guys.” 

“That’s great,” Jonny says dryly.

“Yeah, you sound real excited.”

“I haven’t talked to him in a while.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sure he has a few choice words for me.”

“Probably more than just a few,” Patrick says and he looks amused at the prospect of it.

“Yeah,” Jonny grumbles, overworking the frown on his face and enjoying the way Patrick’s leaning closer to him.

The elevator dings for the sixth floor.

The doors open on a quiet hallway, all of the flurry of activity from the lobby now a memory.

“This is me,” Patrick says, tugging at his bags.

“I’m one up,” Jonny says, just to be saying something. “Good luck this week, Kaner.”

Patrick looks at him, eyes roaming his face. What he’s looking for Jonny doesn’t know.

“You too,” Patrick nods as the doors are closing again.

Jonny rides the rest of the way up to his own room and sets his bags aside. He unzips one suitcase and pulls out shorts to sleep in, then his toothbrush, his toothpaste, his iPod and earphones. The entire time it’s like an invisible string is pulling on him, drawing him towards the door, away.

He unpacks his suits from his garment bag and notices he’s the first to have arrived.

He checks the time.

He leaves his room.

When the doors to the elevator open again Patrick’s waiting on the other side.

“My roommate hasn’t arrived yet,” Jonny says.

Patrick arches an eyebrow, bottom lip caught in his teeth. “I have a single.”

They’re undressed and on Patrick’s king sized bed in less than five minutes. It takes a couple more of them grinding against each other before Jonny’s spread out on his stomach, hand shoved between his body and the mattress as he jacks himself off. Patrick’s all along his back, thrusting his spit slick dick between the crease of Jonny’s ass. The wet head catches on Jonny’s hole with every upstroke and he moans, shivers, vibrates with the way Patrick’s curled over him so gently, his lips and tongue sucking sweet soft kisses over the top of his spine. They come and then they do it again, half asleep and messy. 

When he wakes hours later he’s still in Patrick’s bed.


	5. Chapter 5

The room’s empty.

Patrick’s side of the bed is cool so there’s no way to know how long Jonny’s been alone. He’s not surprised. His stomach aches anyway.

The clock says it’s twenty to ten. If he doesn’t leave now he’ll absolutely be late to practice. So he grabs his clothes and dresses quickly, foregoing a shower to hike it back to his room to grab his gear.

His bed is still untouched, pillows in perfect symmetry. The next bed over is rumpled and unmade, but his roommate appears to be absent as well.

Jonny spares a thought to how this must look to him, Jonny’s bags and clothes and toiletries spread all over the room, but no sign of him throughout the night. He dismisses it quickly. Unless you’re friends most guys don’t pay attention to who’s hooking up with whom. If it doesn’t affect the game it’s little more than chirp material for most, idle gossip for the rest.

Even knowing that, the feeling of unrest settles around him and won’t let go on his way to the rink, or through the first team meeting, or practice.

So there’s something comically ironic in that the person to allay his thoughts is Sharpy.

They didn’t have much time to say more than a brief hello during the morning meeting. Practice was busy. Jonny had worked on special teams with Gallagher and Domi while Sharpy had been off running shooting drills with some of the other boys. He’d disappeared with the other coaches after the team had been dismissed and Jonny’d been assigned, as team captain, to give the first post-practice interview.

Hungry and ready for a nap, he showered quickly and made his way back to the hotel; hoping to catch something to eat on the way. 

Instead, he ends up lingering in the lobby, waiting. He’s standing, not sitting, but leaning against one of the couches by the elevators. That’s how Sharpy finds him, pulling him into a rough hug, one arm around his neck and yanking him down so he can mess with Jonny’s hair.

“Get off,” Jonny laughs, a little pissy, and pushes him away.

Sharpy smiles back, shark-like. “What are you doing, Toes? Wait, don't answer that. I already know. It's being a goddamn moron.”

Jonny shoves at his shoulder, instinctive, even after all this time. “Missed you too.”

“You hungry?” Sharpy asks, eyes twinkling.

This isn’t about catching up, or, it is, but that’s not all that it’s about, Jonny knows. He could make an excuse about being tired, but the truth is, Sharpy’s going to say whatever he has to say eventually whether Jonny wants to hear it or not. So he can do this now, cordially, or wait until Sharpy springs his thoughts on him at the most inopportune time.

“I could eat,” he shrugs, resigned.

Sharpy claps him on the back, hard. “Then take me to lunch.”

Jonny glances across the lobby once more before they leave.

*

They end up at a vegetarian restaurant named Zeytuun not far from the hotel. Jonny orders a Meze plate for an appetizer and lets Sharpy steal all of the cheese while he eats the fresh zucchini and hummus.

The chatter of voices fills the air, but it’s low-level and indistinct. They’re seated by a window near the corner of the room. The sun’s shining in on Jonny’s face, warm and distracting. He watches the foot traffic go by as they talk.

“So how's life?”

“Boring. Great. Never quiet.” Sharpy grins, cheek puffed out to one side from a bite of food. “Abby started teaching again, part-time at the local annex. I think she feels restless now that the girls are older and can take care of themselves most of the time.”

“What's she teaching?”

“The piano. In college she wanted to work in an orchestra. I don’t think I ever told you that. It was before she met me. Kinda ruined all her plans.”

He feigns contrition even though Jonny knows he’s anything but sorry. 

Sometimes he wonders. Sharpy and Abby have been together so long it’s hard to imagine them apart, and they’ve had more than their fair share of ups and downs. It’s not a thing the public knows, the gritty, ugly details of a relationship under the weight of the lives they lead. It’s not an excuse. Sharpy’s mistakes, his fuck ups, his demons, are his, and his to own. 

Abby’s the forgiving kind, she always has been. She’s made allowances that Jonny’s not sure he could live with if he were in her position.

“Well, you're good at doing that,” Jonny says, a little more biting than he means to.

Sharpy’s eyes narrow. “So it's something we have in common then?”

But then maybe it’s not Jonny’s place to judge when or how or why others forgive.

“C’mon…”

“No listen, I know you think I brought you here to ream you out, or to argue for Kaner's honor or some bullshit, but I'm not. I mean I want to, but I won't,” he says, and lets the statement hang in the air.

Jonny can't help but ask, “Why not?”

Sharpy takes a sip of water. He checks his phone. He pops a cherry tomato into his mouth and takes his time chewing it up, knowing Jonny’s waiting for his answer.

“Will you fucking—”

“Because,” Sharpy cuts in, clearly pleased with himself, “there's nothing I could say to you that's worse than what you've already done to yourself.”

Jonny shifts in his seat, edges backwards.

“What you're still doing,” Sharpy says, quieter this time. He checks his phone again.

*

Jonny can hear the television from outside the hotel room door before he slips in his keycard. That should’ve been what tipped him off. There are only two people he knows who watch T.V. this obnoxiously and one of them is his dad. Still, he was hoping he’d find Tavares, Reynolds, maybe even Reilly when he went inside.

Instead, propped up against the headboard, and legs crossed in front of him is Veebee.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he sneers, looking both displeased and disinterested.

Jonny knew Veebee was here, he saw him at practice. He just hadn’t counted on having to sleep four feet away from him for two entire weeks.

“Yeah,” Jonny says, for lack of anything better to say and suddenly feels drained dry.

He kicks off his shoes, pulls his bags off his bed, and spreads out on the mattress face first. Veebee is watching Manchester United play West Ham, the volume up high.

Jonny pulls a pillow over his head and tries to drift.

*

After dinner, later that night, Jonny finds himself lingering in the lobby again. He’s waiting and he knows he shouldn’t wait, and yet he stays all the same.

He’s talking with Skinner about the new ski boat he’s thinking of buying over the summer when he sees Patrick walk into the lobby with Blackered.

Patrick’s got a baseball cap on his head, backwards, blond curls peeking out underneath. His hands are in his pockets. He looks casual, unbothered. Beside him Blackered’s telling him something animatedly, gesturing wildly and eyes lit up as he watches Patrick’s expression close. Too closely.

It makes Jonny prickle all over.

“Hey,” he calls from across the lobby, voice loud, but not too loud. 

Patrick’s gaze flickers to him and the corner of his mouth twitches. He doesn’t immediately come over.

Jonny waits. He’s been waiting all day. He can wait a little longer.

It’s another five minutes or maybe ten before Patrick walks up to him, lips a shiny red from where he’s just licked them. Jonny can’t help but stare.

“Busy?” Patrick asks.

“No.”

Patrick nods and turns toward the elevators, pushes the up button and when the doors open he glances back over his shoulder, impatient.

“Well?”

“Oh. Okay. Yeah,” he says and joins Patrick on the elevator.

On the sixth floor, he follows after Patrick down the hall, eyes trailing over Patrick’s steady steps, the shift of muscles beneath his Henley, the curve of his thighs and ass in his jeans. He remembers countless nights like this in the past, Patrick ahead of him as they walked toward the front door of his apartment, the door of his bedroom. When they got inside, Jonny would spin him around because he couldn’t wait anymore, couldn’t stand not to have Patrick’s eyes on him, looking back. Sometimes he’d push him into the wall, other times the bed, or once, memorably, the floor. They’d kiss. They’d fuck. Slow or fast, it wasn’t important. They were wrapped around each other and they were touching and Patrick’s eyes would stay on him until that moment when pleasure became almost painful and his eyelids would flutter closed, his plush, wet mouth parting on a breathy gasp. Obscene. Gorgeous.

He’d melt into Jonny’s arms and he’d stay there all night.

When they get inside, Jonny keeps his hands to himself, rubbing his palms against the side of his jeans, once, twice.

Patrick spins on him this time, stepping into Jonny’s space, head tilted up and eyes determined. 

“You remember that night on the floor?” he asks, reading Jonny’s thoughts. 

He’s been able to do that for years, remember things that no one else remembers, but also pick up on some thread of a conversation or memory from the past like he’s got a livewire to Jonny’s brain. It’s always brought Jonny a sense of connection before, the comfort of being known. 

Now he feels exposed, cracked apart.

He nods, swallowing, and stares at the sharp line of Patrick’s jaw, the way the yellow glow of the hotel room makes his five o’clock shadow seem a burnished gold. His lips are a red-bitten distraction and when Patrick says, “Let’s do that again.” Jonny is helpless in the face of all his want.

Patrick pushes into the kiss first, knocking Jonny backwards. It surprises him into wrapping his arms around Patrick’s waist, hands spread out on the width of his broad back, muscles flexing beneath his fingers. They make-out against the door like that for long minutes, not rough, but not languid. Instead it’s like a rising flame, flickering and crackling to life as it grows.

Hands twisted in the front of Jonny’s shirt, Patrick draws him further into the room and then starts to undress.

Jonny should be used to Patrick’s body by now, the way it looks all finely boned and strong, the way it moves so gracefully, but often hesitant. He takes off his shirt first and then his pants and boxers and Jonny watches him twist and bend, mesmerized still, even now. 

“Stop staring,” Patrick says, turned away.

Jonny jolts at being caught out and blinks, moving to take off his own clothes. Patrick’s words don’t sound teasing or scolding, just a simple statement made in the moment. But when they’re face to face again Patrick’s cheeks are flushed a faint red.

He ducks his head and licks at his lips. 

Jonny’s dick twitches hard at the tableau before him, Patrick bare and smooth, his skin a creamy white. His nipples are a petal pink and so is the head of his cock where it hangs thick and heavy between his legs.

The need to touch him is overwhelming.

Instead, he pulls the comforter and the top sheet from the hotel bed and lays it out on the floor, one corner all rucked up. He doesn’t fix it. When he straightens, Patrick’s got one knee bent, leaning on the mattress. He’s twisted, one arm behind him as he fucks two fingers into himself.  
Every last ounce of Jonny’s control dissipates at the sight of this, of Patrick opening himself up for Jonny, face a mask of concentration and fingers working in and out too fast.

Jonny steps around, moving in close to Patrick’s back, and curling around him. He palms the plump curve of Patrick’s ass and pulls one cheek aside, sliding his own finger around Patrick’s slick rim.

Patrick shivers, a low murmur escaping his lips. He arches back, asking without asking and Jonny complies easily, slipping his own middle finger in along with Patrick’s. He presses his mouth to the juncture of his shoulder and neck, tonguing at the heated skin. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Patrick moans and starts pumping his hips in earnest. “ _Jonny_.”

There’s a neediness in Patrick’s voice that Jonny hasn’t heard in so long that it steals his breath away. His own dick is a leaking, throbbing ache rubbing over the side of Patrick’s thigh. He fits his index finger in slowly along with the others, Patrick’s hole gripping him like a vice.

“Yeah, Peeks?” he asks, voice too shaky for his own liking.

“I’m ready. C’mon,” he says, stilling his own hand and his body.

He looks on edge already, his breath coming out in those familiar stuttered waves that Jonny knows means he’s close.

Stepping back, Jonny eases his fingers out and steadies Patrick on two feet. Then he spreads himself out on the floor, wishing he’d grabbed a pillow.

Before he can debate about whether to get up to grab it or not one pelts him in the face, followed by Patrick’s weight straddling his body. He adjusts the pillow as Patrick fits a condom on him and then he’s being enveloped in the hot, slick heat of Patrick’s body and nothing else matters.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, hands clamping on Patrick’s ass and digging his nails in.

Patrick takes his time adjusting, settling himself exactly how he wants and rubbing his wet dick all over Jonny’s abs. The sight drives him crazy, the desire to flip Patrick onto his back and just fuck in until they’re both a sweating, ruined heap is like a tangible itch vibrating underneath his skin.

He tries to pull Patrick closer, wanting now, now, now.

But no.

Patrick circles his hands around Jonny’s wrists and draws them away, baring them over Jonny’s head and to the floor.

This isn’t like that night years ago, with Jonny pressing Patrick down, covering him and fucking him like they were both dying for it. He’d kissed the tears on Patrick’s eyelids and held him close as Patrick had been an unending litany of _please_ and _Jonny_ and _sweetheart_ and _more_ and _more_ and _yes_. 

He’s all hazy-eyed control and measured thrusts of his hips now, grinding down slowly and taking exactly what he wants. He doesn’t give himself away.

When he comes, spilling all over Jonny’s stomach and chest, his fingers move from Jonny’s wrists to the palm of his hands and up, their fingertips brushing. It’s that, more than anything else in the moment, which causes Jonny to lose it.

*

By some unspoken agreement, that’s how they end every night. It becomes a pattern of sorts. They go to practice or games during the day and in the evening they meet up in the lobby to go to Patrick’s room. After that first night Jonny doesn’t sleep in Patrick’s bed again.

He ignores the knowing looks Veebee sends him when he comes back late every night.

There are other things to focus on.

That first week they play Belarus, Ukraine, and Sweden, winning two and losing one. The second week they play Denmark, Russia and the USA. They beat them all.

*

After the USA game, Reilly and Skinner badger him into going out for drinks. He lets the obligation of making them happy curb his need to seek Patrick out. He knows Patrick’s probably in a foul mood after the loss. He knows this and yet it’s a habit he’s never been able to break, this urge he has to be Patrick’s pillar during the rough moments.

He doesn’t stay at the bar long.

When he knocks on Patrick’s door later, there’s no answer.

He should leave. Come back tomorrow, maybe.

He doesn’t. He stands and figures Patrick will show up soon and when it’s Sharpy that catches him at the end of the hall, he makes a weird face and walks up to him.

“Whatcha doin’?”

Jonny scratches the back of his neck, searching for an answer, for something.

“Hanging out,” he says lamely.

“In the hallway?”

“No. I’m waiting for someone.”

Sharpy laughs. “Well, that’s vague. Who are you…”

Jonny sees the moment Sharpy’s eyes fall on the hotel room number over his shoulder, the instant the rest snaps into place.

At this he pins Jonny with a pointed, severe look. 

“You two are still fucking?”

Jonny thinks about denying it for a half second, of making excuses or trying to talk his way around the inevitable judgment he can see coming his way, but he doesn’t. He made this choice, just like the ones before it, and he’ll own them.

Still, his voice sounds unsteady when he says, “Um.”

The lines of Sharpy’s face look hard and worn. “You know this is a horrible idea, right?”

Jonny doesn’t answer.

In response he’s rocked backwards by the force of Sharpy’s shove to his shoulder. “This. Is. A. Horrible. Fucking. Idea. Horrible. HORRIBLE. Do I need to spell it out for you?”

“No. Jesus,” Jonny huffs, moving away from him. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

“What do you want me to do?”

Sharpy’s brow wrinkles, incredulous. “Stay away.”

He says it like it’s easy, like it’s something Jonny’s ever been good at.

“I tried.”

“You didn’t. You left.”

Jonny clenches his jaw.

He has a short fuse. Everyone knows this. Jonny himself knows this. It’s gotten better over the years as he’s learned the importance of what to let roll off his back and what’s worth getting heated about it. These days there are very few people that are still able to rile him up. Sharpy’s always been one of them. He knew it when Jonny was nineteen and an overly-intense rookie with too much to prove, when he was a Cup-winning captain with years of experience under his belt, and he knows it now, with the way he slices right through to the thing that cuts Jonny the most.

“I did. You don’t know everything,” he says, teeth gritted. “And if Patrick wants me to stay away all he has to do is tell me.”

“Even if it hurts him?” Sharpy asks.

Jonny scrubs a hand over his face. Down the hall he can hear someone talking, a woman, perhaps. She laughs, the sound like tinkling bells.

“I’m not…,” he sighs, trying to compose his thoughts.

“You are,” Sharpy pushes.

“You know what,” Jonny says, absolutely done. “Fuck off.”

He leaves Sharpy calling after him. 

He doesn’t see Patrick that night.

*

Practice the next afternoon is short, and there’s no game, so Jonny decides to explore the city alone. He walks for miles through Tampere, exploring the pier and the markets and the shops. He buys souvenirs for his parents, a porcelain doll for Sunny and a travel book for Margot.

There’s a café with a name too long to pronounce that serves soy lattes. Jonny sits at a small table out front and flips through a cooking magazine, the sun balmy against his back.

He’s more relaxed, the tension from his shoulders gone by the time he makes his return to the hotel. Thoughts of a nap, or maybe dinner, or maybe both are floating through his head as he takes the elevator up to his floor.

He’s not expecting to see Patrick standing at his door and talking to Veebee, but that’s what he finds.

“Uh, hey,” he says, drawing both of their attention.

Jonny bumps their shoulders together.

“Hi,” Patrick says, shifting away.

Veebee stares back, blandly, hair styled and wallet in his hand like he was about to walk out the door when Patrick arrived.

“He was looking for you,” Veebee says, chin tilted curtly in Patrick’s direction.

Patrick ducks his head.

“We were going to get some food and drinks. You want to come?” he asks. He’s cracking a few of his knuckles, fingers shifting over skin.

Jonny wants to still Patrick’s hands, take one of them into his own, bring him closer.

He says, “Sure, let me drop these bags inside first.”

“I’m going out,” Veebee states, and shoves in between them to get out of the door.

There’s little doubt Jonny is going to hear about this later. He sighs, tired, and moves to put his souvenirs in his luggage. He follows Patrick down to the sixth floor afterwards and he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there, not really. Still, it gnaws at him anyway that Patrick lied.

But that’s nothing new.

He takes a seat on the bed, unsure of Patrick’s plan. 

There’s a burn that’s been building under his skin since yesterday, for months, spreading like a storm. He’s restless with it, with the way it makes him to want to tear something apart, break it into pieces. He rolls his shoulders and pops his neck, takes a deep breath, forces it down.

“So I was thinking room service and some blow jobs, you game?” Patrick asks.

Jonny exhales and nods.

*

Two days later at practice, Veebee asks, “Have fun with your girlfriend last night?” 

It’s like he was waiting for the moment Jonny would be most unprepared for it, concentrating on their board battle and focused only on the puck.

He hesitates for a second, maybe two, but that’s enough to lose him leverage.

Veebee’s smiling, smug and pleased with himself after he wins. 

Jonny sets up to go again. This time he slams him into the boards face-first, uses all of his body weight to hold Veebee there and knock the puck free.

“Don’t talk about him, you fucking shit,” he says, low and harsh, before he skating away.

*

They beat Germany in the quarterfinals only to lose to the U.S. in the semifinals at the end of the week. To make amends, Kessel, Jones, and most of the Americans offer to buy drinks for the Canadian boys at a bar within walking distance of the hotel.

Some of the Finns drop by after they’re all a couple pitchers in and Teuvo, with the help of Blackered and Meyers, coerce Jonny into trying Lakka.

It’s sweet to the taste and smooth, going down easier than Jonny expects. It also packs more of a punch than he was prepared for and suddenly he’s buzzed, hot around the edges and loose.

Earlier Patrick and Sharpy were off by themselves at a table separate from the noise of the group. Jonny doesn’t know when Patrick migrated closer to him or when they found two seats next to each other so they could press their legs together. What he does know is he’s feeling relaxed, sweat-sticky and skin humming.

“Wanna get outta here?” he mumbles, words soft and a little slurred into Patrick’s ear.

Patrick turns, eyes flicking up to meet his and Jonny watches as they dilate, all of that beautiful blue taken over by black. He’s already hardening in his pants at the sight of it, and fuck, he needs to get Patrick out of here now. Immediately.

“Yeah, okay,” Patrick says, his tongue coming out to wet his lips as a smile curls around his mouth.

They extract themselves from the bar with little fuss. Most of the guys are plastered or trying to pick up and they aren’t paying attention. It’s easy.

Patrick leans into Jonny’s shoulder all the way back to the room, steps heavy, but steady enough. He pushes at Jonny when the door locks behind them. It’s not a shove so much as a hurried guiding, directing Jonny to the bed and down. He takes off one of Jonny’s shoes and then the other before divesting him of his pants and boxer briefs. Jonny leaves him to it. He’s seen this look a thousand times, Patrick’s single-minded focus as he works his way to getting exactly what he wants. And what he wants, apparently, is Jonny naked underneath him, legs spread wide so he can lick from Jonny’s hole up to his cock and back down again. What he wants is to make Jonny a dizzy, fucked-out mess, boneless and wrecked.

It takes him longer than usual to recover, but he spends most of that time sucking the taste of himself off Patrick’s tongue as Patrick sprawls out half on top of him and rubs his slippery dick over Jonny’s hip.

“How you wanna come?” Jonny asks.

“Like this,” Patrick pants, tucking his face against Jonny’s neck as he thrusts.

Minutes of this go by with Jonny tracing over the muscles of Patrick’s back and the globes of his ass until he hears a frustrated grunt.

He cups the back of Patrick’s neck and says, “Tell me what you need.”

Patrick lifts his head, skims his teeth over Jonny’s chin, presses a kiss there. “Your fingers,” he breathes.

Jonny brings his forefinger and index finger up to his tongue, licks around them until they’re good and slippery, Patrick’s eyes heavy lidded on him.

When he’s done he reaches out to trail them over Patrick’s lips, groaning as Patrick sucks them into his scorching, wet mouth.

Eventually satisfied, Jonny pulls them free and rubs up and down the crease of Patrick’s ass, catching on his hole once, twice before pushing them both inside up to the second knuckle. Patrick keens, one hand gripping Jonny’s bicep and the other raking over his hair.

Jonny fucks his fingers slowly in and out, in and out, pressing deeper every time. It’s so good. And it gets even better as Patrick continues to thrust his hips, out of sync and rapid fire, grinding his dick over Jonny’s abs as he swallows Jonny’s fingers up perfectly. He’s unbearably sexy. Utterly lost in this moment and taking pleasure in everything Jonny can give him.

It’s almost too much and it’s not enough.

Patrick shudders through a moan, so close. He’s right on the edge.

Jonny can’t help but press his lips to the sensitive corner of Patrick’s jaw, right below his ear, says, “That good, baby?” 

“Oh fuck, _Jonny_ ,” Patrick cries, trembling, and spills between them.

Jonny watches it all, the way Patrick’s face tightens and then relaxes, every bit of tension flowing out of his body as he shivers, tiny little tremors quaking throughout as he comes down. He kisses Patrick’s neck, his cheek, his temple, pushes the sweaty curls off his forehead.

He wants to pull the covers over them and fall asleep, just like this, maybe never move again.

It doesn’t last.

As soon as Patrick’s breathing has returned to normal he’s up and easing himself away hurriedly, shuffling into the bathroom to presumably clean up.

Jonny rolls until he can grab a few tissues, wipe up the mess on his torso.

“So Sharpy came to see you.”

It’s not a question, and it’s not what Jonny was expecting after what just happened, but he shrugs anyway and says, “Sort of, yeah.”

“Did he tell you to stay away from me?”

He looks pissed.

Jonny blinks, caught off guard once again. “How'd you know?”

Patrick laughs dryly. “Because he's a broken fucking record. And he doesn't know how to keep out of my business.”

Jonny gets up and reaches for his boxer briefs, feeling suddenly vulnerable, laid out on the bed bare as Patrick stands a few feet away in his T-shirt and pajamas pants. He dresses slowly, his limbs still heavy from the alcohol and sex. The air is thick around them.

“Maybe he's right,” he murmurs after a long beat. “Maybe we're just...”

“Just what?” 

“Making it worse.”

“Fine, then leave,” Patrick snaps.

Jonny sighs. “I can't.”

Patrick’s gaze is sharp on him, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“You know why,” he says.

“I know you left before, so how's this time any less easy?”

“It was never fucking easy!” Jonny shouts, unable to stay calm. Not now, not in the face of Patrick’s cool composure. “Do you honestly think it didn’t kill me to leave?”

“I think I was right there and you left anyway. That’s the point.”

“Yeah, because _you_ didn’t want us enough,” Jonny bites back and for a moment time stops.

There were so many things that Jonny could’ve said or done, so many things he could have chosen not to do, and he picked the very worst one. He knows it the second the words are out of his mouth, the second he sees the way Patrick’s eyes widen and go glassy, the lines of his face falling.

His bottom lip quivers.

“Get out.” 

Jonny steps forward. “Patrick…”

“No,” he says, voice high as one hand comes up to halt Jonny before moving to swipe over his cheek. “Just stop. There’s nothing you can say that can fix this. And honestly? I’m done. I can’t…I can’t fucking do this anymore. I don’t want _this_ anymore.”

I don’t want _you_ anymore, he means to say, and it pierces through all of the other static to Jonny’s ears.

He steps forward again. He just needs to touch Patrick. He just needs him in his arms and they’ll be okay. They can work this out. It’ll be alright. It will. It will.

He steps forward and Patrick moves to the door, opens it.

“Okay,” he says and goes.

“Don’t come back,” Patrick tells him and locks him out.

*

He walks back to his own room in a daze. Slips the keycard in and lets himself inside.

Veebee’s on his laptop, the television on high, again.

It all feels too normal, and it's not. It’s not.

Patrick’s gone. It’s all gone. And he knew that, he did. He thought he did.

But now he can’t catch his breath and his hands are numb. It’s too loud and he can’t think above all the noise.

He needs it all to stop.

There’s a deafening crash and a shatter as Jonny rips the T.V. from the dresser. He upends the table nearby and the coffee maker is thrown against the wall. 

It’s fucked. It’s all fucked. He’s gasping, but there’s nothing to grab onto. It’s all gone.

He wants to break the window open. He's going to break the goddamn window open, he thinks. He picks up a chair, but doesn't get far.

That's when two arms come around and drag him down, yank him to the ground.

“ _Stop_ ,” he hears. 

He doesn't feel like he's breathing, but the shallow inhales and exhales are the white noise filling his head.

“Are you done?” Veebee asks, over him.

 _No_ , he thinks. “Yes.”

They lay amongst the wreckage of the room, chests heaving and clothes twisted from where Jonny resisted being pulled down. 

“Just had to break the fucking T.V., didn't you, psycho?”

Jonny laughs. It's loud, cracking through the quiet air like thunder a beat before lightning. It isn't funny. It isn't. 

He's on the floor, again.

He smacks a hand to his chest to make sure it's solid and not a gaping wound. He digs his nails in.

Everything hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

Veebee's arms are around him, holding him tight so his insides don't fall out. He places a cool hand on Jonny’s forehead, keeping him still like his mom used to do when he was a kid.

“I just want to go home,” he says, shaking.

He pushes his face into the scratchy, dirty hotel carpet and sobs.


	6. Chapter 6

_2021 (2 ½ years ago)_

 

They must've forgotten to close the drapes last night. That's Jonny's first thought upon waking.

It's bright in Patrick's bedroom, even though the sky is a milky gray, sun hidden behind thick, fluffy bright clouds.

Next to him, Patrick's still mostly passed out, face mashed into his pillow with one arm splayed out over Jonny's chest. He brings his own hand up and rubs it briefly over Patrick's before curling it into a fist to knuckle at his eyes. His mouth is dry, his skin a little too tacky, and he needs to piss badly. But. He doesn't want to move. Not just yet.

He likes these moments, where they don't have anything ahead of them for the day and nothing pressing to get done. Days where they can just be lazy and still and them, unlike last night. 

Although, last night was fun in its own way.

They absolutely destroyed the Blues in a 7-1 blowout, with Patrick getting a hat trick, and Jonny scoring a shorty off a slick pass from Seabs, assisting on two other goals to finish off the night.

Everyone was in a great mood afterwards, laughing and shooting the shit in the locker room. So it was a mostly unanimous decision to continue the celebration at Rockit. They drank, ate, and chilled out for a few hours, until Jonny's shoulder started to ache from the hit he'd taken earlier, and he remembered he wasn't exactly twenty-one years old anymore.

Getting home didn’t mean going to sleep. Although that’s what Jonny figured would happen with the way Patrick leaned against him in the cab, half-dozing on his shoulder and one hand curled around Jonny’s thigh, mostly innocent. 

When they got inside his apartment, Patrick went suddenly from sleepy-eyed softness to a kind of feverish desperation. He yanked at Jonny’s clothes and then at his arms, pressing him down naked into his bed so he could crawl in between Jonny’s legs and attack his mouth.

He got like this every once in awhile, urgent and greedy and demanding, like all the pieces of invisible armor he wore during the day had been stripped away and he was just vivid, raw need. He tried to prep Jonny the same way, hurried and a little rough, until Jonny hissed and slowed him down, slowed them both down. Then it was so, so much better, Patrick pushing in deep and measured as he curled over Jonny and pressed his face to Jonny’s chest, kissed over his pectoral and up to his collarbone, underneath his chin.

Patrick’s breathing was stuttered already at this point, like he was close. He made a wounded sound; as if it all felt so good it almost hurt, and pressed his face to Jonny’s chest again. Jonny held him there, one hand cupped around the back of Patrick’s head, fingers tangled in his curls as Patrick pumped between his thighs.

There was an edge of desperation to Patrick tonight in a way that was almost new. Them coming together had always been one level of intense or another, but this was something else, something frenzied, fearful.

"You were so good tonight," Jonny said around a broken moan. "So good for me."

He wanted to ask Patrick to touch him, please, but there wasn’t time, he could tell. Patrick was keening, breath heavy and wet as his hips sped up in an erratic pace. He grasped Jonny’s biceps, dug his nails in as he came, saying, “You’re mine. Jonny baby, fuck. You’re mine. I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

Jonny was still hard between them, but that could wait for the moment as Patrick came down, clinging to Jonny all sweaty, pliant, and beautiful. So incredibly beautiful.

They laid there for long enough that the alcohol was starting to make him sleepy, Patrick heavy on top of him and cuddled close. But when he moved to clean up, Patrick stopped him, grabbing the lube like he was ready to go again. He didn’t hand it over, instead popping the cap and dribbling some on his own fingers. He kneeled on the bed and opened himself up, eyes on Jonny the whole time and quiet. It was the good kind of silence, though, comfortable and yet charged, intimate with the way they couldn’t keep their eyes off each other.

There was a puddle of precome on Jonny’s belly by the time Patrick was ready to go and he moved backwards on the bed a bit, ready for Patrick to straddle his waist and sink down on him. He was shivering for it, his skin like a livewire ready to go off with Patrick’s touch.

Instead, Patrick laid down next to him, spread his legs, curling an arm underneath each one and then bringing them up to his chest. Jonny scrambled off the bed to get a better view, coming up in front to see Patrick’s gorgeous pink hole all slick and stretched for him, waiting. He shook with how much he wanted, needed.

“Peeks,” he sighed, fanning his hands out over Patrick’s ass, pulling him farther open. 

“You want me?” Patrick asked, eyes almost black and mouth bitten red.

“Always want you,” Jonny said, meeting his gaze. “Love you.”

“Fuck me, please,” he said, his voice whisper soft.

Most of the time sex between them was easy, fun, playful. They’d banter or flirt or go at it quick and hard. In the dead of night though, in the dark of Patrick’s bedroom and just inches between their naked bodies, Patrick eyes stripping Jonny completely, utterly bare, it all felt more real and frightening and overwhelming than anything Jonny had ever touched. 

Stepping into the cradle of Patrick’s legs, he felt like he could break him if he pushed too hard and at the same time like two links in a chain, inextricably connected, impossible to pull apart.

“Tell me what you need.” Jonny said, a question he asked often enough that sometimes it awarded him a huffy eye roll, or a sarcastic response, or a gorgeous plea.

“You, now,” Patrick replied and moved to yank Jonny down.

Jonny eased into it, fitting himself to Patrick’s hole and watching it greedily suck him in as he levered himself as close to Patrick as he could without weighing him down.

They kissed and kissed and kissed as Jonny fucked in, slow at first and then harder, just the way Patrick preferred, the way that made them both dizzy with how hot it was. By the time Patrick was ready to come again, they’d gone from Jonny on top, to Patrick riding him, to on their sides, Patrick’s left leg propped over Jonny’s and Jonny’s arms wrapped around Patrick’s rib cage holding him close.

He moved a hand down to cup Patrick’s dick, thumb over the head, but Patrick whined and pushed him away, slammed his hips back hungrily against Jonny’s.

“So gorgeous, Peeks,” Jonny said, half out of his mind with the desire to come, with the need to get them both there, so close.

“Harder,” Patrick breathed. 

Jonny sped up his thrusts, sweat dripping at his temples as he reached up to play with Patrick’s nipples.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” Patrick cried, clawing at the sheets. “Close. ‘M so close. Please.”

“Yeah, baby. I know,” Jonny said, and brushed his lips over the corner of Patrick’s jaw. “I’m yours.”

Patrick shouted as he came, clenching down so tight on Jonny’s cock he almost whited out with the pleasure of it all. They moved through it until everything became too sensitive to keep going, but they didn’t separate. It was messy and sticky and wet, especially when Jonny pulled out, but they were too exhausted and sex drunk to move or much care about the rest. At some point Jonny flopped onto his back, Patrick curling into his side as they passed out, the comforter pulled up and the dirty top sheet kicked down.

Jonny held onto Patrick’s wrist and dreamed of summer.

*

It’s mid-morning now, early enough he could go back to sleep, but late enough he’ll feel a little guilty if he doesn’t get up and start his day.

He stretches and winces at the ache his back, not from hockey, but from the mini-marathon sex he and Patrick indulged in last night.

He smiles at the memory of it now. How good it all felt, although it was always that way with Patrick; intense and spine-tinglingly hot. But there were moments even after being together for years when they hit a new high, and last night was definitely making the top twenty list, maybe the top ten.

Patrick shifts beside him in bed then and blinks his eyes open.

“Hey you,” Jonny murmurs, voice sleep rough.

He brushes a curl off Patrick’s forehead and scratches gently at his scalp.

“Mmmm,” Patrick hums, tilting his head into Jonny’s hand.

“Sleep well?”

“Mmmhmm.”

Jonny laughs.

“I had a dream about strawberry crepes.” 

“That's it? Just strawberry crepes?”

Patrick licks over his dry lips and shakes his head, yawning. “I think I was making them? Or I was learning how to make them. Anyway, they were fucking amazing and now I'm sad because I wasted my cheat day on barbecue wings and ranch sauce at the club last night.”

“Tragic,” Jonny deadpans.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Hey! Don't mock my pain. It's very real.”

“What if I made you a strawberry smoothie? Would that make up for it?” Jonny asks, running a hand up and down Patrick’s back, kneading into the muscles.

“I guess,” he sighs, but he kisses Jonny’s neck in thanks, rubbing his body along Jonny’s side temptingly.

He holds off for a moment, enough to know he can’t help but give in, and grabs Patrick's ass. His middle finger slips between Patrick’s crease to press over his hole and slightly in where it's still slippery from last night. Patrick hisses out a moan.

Jonny stops. “Was that a good sound or a bad sound?”

“Both.” 

“Sore?” Jonny asks, pulling his hand away, but not without lingering a second first.

Patrick smirks at him knowingly. “A bit, but you know it still feels good.”

“I'll rub some balm on there.”

“I bet you will.”

Jonny scoffs. “I'll go get it.”

Patrick stops him from going far, arm around his middle so he’ll stay put. It’s not really his grasp that keeps Jonny still, but his eyes, clear and blue and pinning Jonny right in place like they usually do.

“No, wait. Let's take a shower first. Should probably strip the bed too. Then you can rub me down.”

The bed is absolutely wrecked and also fairly filthy. Jonny bites back his grin.

“Anything else, your majesty?”

Patrick tongues at his bottom lip, contemplating. “Hmm, yeah.”

“And that is?”

“Brush your teeth so I can kiss you.”

This time Jonny rolls his eyes. “Obviously. You're so fuckin’ bossy in the mornings.”

“If I weren't you'd never get out of bed.”

“Never get out of your bed, you mean.”

“Our bed,” Patrick corrects, then pulls him in by his chin and kisses him anyway.

*

Their shower is short-lived.

After Jonny washes Patrick’s hair, they soap each other up, leaning together under the spray, and touch each other just to be touching. 

“Shit. I told my mom I’d call her when I got up this morning,” Patrick says, rinsing himself off with purpose now. “You want me to make coffee?”

“Nah. I’ll make a shake,” Jonny says, kissing Patrick’s shoulder and getting in a quick ass squeeze before Patrick slides out of the shower.

Patrick laughs, the kind that sounds light and airy and sizzles up through Jonny’s stomach.

He rests back against the tile and smiles, thinks about what he wants to do for the day, if they should go out or stay in for lunch. Then he gets lost in hockey for a time, the way he does whenever his mind is too idle, and the water becomes lukewarm after a while.

When he’s out, dried off, and treading into the living room, he finds Patrick not on the phone with his mom but on Skype with Erica talking about Christmas. 

Jonny hesitates at the foot of the couch, just for a second, and then moves past Patrick, waving at Erica on the computer as he goes by. 

“Hey Jon,” she says, sweet and rapidfire before she’s back on topic again.

It’s not that she doesn’t know about them. Erica’s always known. Even before they were together she’d had this look that she gave Jonny sometimes when she caught him staring or smiling or hanging on Patrick too much, like she could see inside his thoughts to the very thing he wanted most. So it made a weird kind of sense that she was the one to catch them. They hadn’t been doing anything, not really, just hugging in an empty hallway the night they won their third cup. They’d been hurtling at high speed towards this for months, years, maybe half their lives.

Jonny had pulled Patrick aside from the celebrations just for an instant, just to...well, he hadn’t even known at the time. To tell Patrick how proud he was, how great that goal had been, how he’d always had faith. Always. Some form of that had come out, although the memory is a blur now. What he really remembers is the way Patrick had beamed up at him, smile like sunshine and then they had kissed until they couldn’t breathe, until they couldn’t speak. That’s how Erica had found them, enveloped in each other and taking a break to suck air into their lungs.

“You guys okay?” she’d asked.

Patrick had looked from her, to Jonny, and back to her again. Uncertain. Not quite trembling, but buzzing in Jonny’s arms, hands moving at the back of Jonny’s jersey.

“Are we okay?” he’d said, face so solemn compared to the cascade of emotion it’d been just moments ago.

Erica had huffed out a laugh, or a maybe a sigh and grinned. “Of course. You should get back, though, everyone’s looking for you. Seriously.”

She eyed Patrick in particular and Jonny knew that meant Tiki and Donna more so than anyone.

They’d parted and spent the rest of the night getting ridiculously drunk and being loud and joyous and high on life. Jonny never forgot Erica’s simple acceptance though, or the way it helped Patrick then and now and all the moments in between. Even if it wasn’t enough, not really.

In the kitchen, Jonny opens cabinets and cupboards, collecting all of the things he’ll need to make Patrick’s smoothie and his protein shake. He can still hear Patrick and Erica talking from the other room. Donna wants to know if Patrick's bringing anyone home for the holidays. He says no. It’s what Jonny expected, but it leaves a knotted up sting that sits heavy within him anyway.

He makes his shake and drinks it in the kitchen, bare feet cold on the floor. 

Patrick’s done talking if the sound of the television turned on is any indication. Jonny doesn’t go out there yet. Instead he washes his cup and the blender, throws away the garbage and doesn’t set out the steaks he bought two days ago.

Walking into the living room he takes a seat on the recliner instead of the couch, ass planted on the edge so he can lean his elbows on his knees. He places Patrick’s smoothie on coffee table, watches him flip channels quietly for a few minutes, then looks out at the skyline of Chicago, the buildings dark without the sun present to make them shimmer and glow.

“I'd go,” he says. “If you asked, I would.”

Patrick sets the remote down. “But your parents are coming into town?”

Jonny stares out the window, watches the Ferry travel down the river. “Then you could stay. Spend Christmas here with me.”

“I already told my parents I was going to Buffalo, Jon. Come on.”

He’s still got his eyes on the television or not far off. They used to have these arguments while in each other’s faces, looking and looking and never looking anywhere else.

Not anymore.

Jonny sighs. “What if just once you talked to me before you made plans, eh? What if we actually spent a fucking holiday together.”

“We just spent Halloween together,” Patrick says, voice low, even.

Jonny tries to steady himself, clamps his hands over his knees. “You know what I mean.”

“I came to fucking Winnipeg for the Fourth of July! For you!” Patrick says, and he’s off the couch now, pacing.

“You know what I mean,” Jonny repeats. “Jesus. You're smart, so stop pretending you don't understand what I’m getting at here.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“It's not what I want you to say, it's what I want you to do.” He’s looking down now, at a purple-yellow bruise on his left ankle. He digs his right toe in and presses down until it stings.

“I already promised,” Patrick says. “They'd be disappointed if I wasn't there. Next time, okay. Next time I will.”

He can’t decide if he cares too much or Patrick doesn’t care enough. He doesn’t know and there’s no one to explain it, to make sense of this mess they’re in.

“Yeah okay,” he murmurs.

“Jonny.”

“It's fine,” he says. 

Patrick steps in front of him, cups his jaw, gentle, and tilts his face up. He presses his lips to the corner of Jonny’s eye and then sweetly to his mouth. He tastes of bitter coffee and mint gum.

“Let's get out of here for a while, go for a walk or something, yeah? Please?”

His smile is small, warm, gorgeous. Jonny loves him so much it hurts, deep down in his bones, and in all of the nameless places in between. He’d do anything for this.

“Yeah, alright,” he says and stands.

Both of them move past the smoothie, half-melted and untouched on the coffee table.

*

They've been having this argument for months. Fourteen months, give or take. That’s when Erica gave birth to Patrick’s nephew, Joshua.

Jonny knew all about Joshua. The exact date and time of his birth, the details of his baptism, the sleepless nights he stayed up with colic, the moment he first learned to crawl and then walk. Each memory told to him with Patrick's beaming enthusiasm, pride and love always in his voice. And Jonny has to admit Joshua is an exceptionally cute child. He’s the spitting image of Erica, all bright blonde hair and easy to laugh. The happiest kid, really.

But what Joshua represents to Patrick’s family, in one glaring aspect, is a deficiency in Patrick’s life. That’s why the questions started. The ‘who are you dating?’ questions and the have ‘you met any nice girls lately?’ questions.

“When are you going to finally settle down?” his mom asks.

“When the time is right,” Patrick tells her.

And Jonny thinks, _when is the time going to be right?_

He’s thought about that question over and over until it’s like a mountainous volcano waiting to erupt. And when it does, the words spill out of his mouth at the worst times: before and after sex, on the way home from a game they’ve won, or one they’ve lost, on the plane with the guys asleep around them, in the middle of dishes, lying down for a pre-game nap. Really the only time Jonny is able to turn it off is during practice and actual games. Otherwise it’s a burning pit boiling inside the core of him.

So they’ve had this argument more than once. More times than he can count. It usually goes something like this:

He’ll ask, because he has to ask, because he needs to know...

“When is the time going to be right?” 

Patrick might roll his eyes or leave the room. Sometimes they scream at each other. Sometimes they fuck it out. The moments when they do talk, Patrick usually tells him, “I don't know. Later.”

“Later? In five years? Ten?” He always sounds painfully pathetic to his own ears and he hates it, hates what this does to him, to both of them. 

“I don't know," Patrick says and he’ll look almost helpless, like he can't fathom imagining life that far ahead, like maybe he doesn't want to.

"After hockey?"

"Maybe."

The uncertainty gnaws at Jonny constantly. "Maybe. But you're not sure."

"What's the rush?" Patrick asks, chewing at his fingernails, chewing, sometimes, until they bled.

Jonny draws his hand away and clasps it in his own, keeps it still for as long as he’s allowed.

"There's no rush. I'm not asking for a specific date."

"Then what? What do you want?"

"What do _you_ want?"

This is when Patrick squirms away, unable to stay motionless any longer. He'll pace or fidget with his hair or pick at strings on his shirt.

"I want you," he’ll say with such conviction. "I want hockey. That's what I've always wanted."

"You want a family," Jonny clarifies.

"Sure," Patrick shrugs.

"And everything that comes with that?"

"Like...kids?"

Jonny shakes his head, because yes he means kids but that isn't the first step, that isn’t what has to happen first, that comes later and he knows Patrick knows that. "Like actually living together. Like coming out."

"Ye-yeah, I guess," Patrick says, tripping over his words, gaze averted. "I mean, I don't know. I can't really think about it. It's gotta be about hockey, right now."

Jonny clears his throat, thick with doubt. "What...what about when there's no more hockey?"

"There's always going to be hockey, Jon," he says.

It sounds final.

_There's always going to be a reason not to come out_ , Jonny hears. That’s his answer.

_There’s always going to be a reason not to choose you_ , echoes in his mind.

*

They bundle up in coats, scarves, and toques before taking to the chilly streets of the Loop. Patrick almost grabs an umbrella, but then decides against it as the forecast says cloudy with a low chance of rain.

It's cold enough and early enough on a no-name Wednesday that they make it from Patrick's building without any fuss. There are people out and about, it's still Chicago after all, but the city seems subdued, solemn even.

They walk along the river for a while, not touching and not talking much either. There's no specific destination in mind. They pass a few restaurants and other assorted shops. Then Patrick bumps into his shoulder. Jonny assumes it's accidental, but it happens again a beat later, Patrick eyeing him playfully from his periphery. He lets him get a step or two ahead and then nudges his shoulder forward causing Patrick to jerk sideways.

Patrick shoves at his chest before yanking on the front of his shirt to keep him close again, a go-away-no-come-here gesture.

They both laugh and Jonny feels stupid silly, relaxing incrementally the farther they walk, the cool breeze against his face.

When they get closer to Millennium Park, Patrick guides them quietly through, until they make it all the way to The Bean. There are tourists taking pictures and families with strollers passing through.

“How do you feel about Morton’s for lunch? I don’t want to cook,” Patrick says, nose scrunched up in that way Jonny knows he’s already made up his mind.

He starts to answer when he feels the first drops of rain. It’s gentle at first, soft little pitter-patters that quickly turn into a thousand tiny pelts rushing down all at once. Of the people around them most scatter out of the park or to the trees as they duck under what little space is available beneath The Bean.

They’re mostly dry and safe from the downpour as long as they don’t leave this small area. Jonny pulls off his toque to shake off the wetness as Patrick bats off his shoulders. There are two elderly women chatting amongst themselves and a family with a small child a few feet away. 

“Should’ve brought that umbrella,” Jonny says, dry.

Patrick sticks his tongue between his teeth. “Now you tell me.” He moves to take his cellphone from his pocket as the child near them, a little boy, begins squirming in his stroller, clearly displeased. He has two helium balloons, one in each hand, a purple and a green one. “Storm is supposed to be past us in fifteen minutes, maybe less.”

“Was this the same app that told you it probably wasn’t going to rain at all?” Jonny asks.

Patrick frowns. “Shut up.”

Jonny grins and feels a little body bump into his legs. It’s the boy, more of a toddler really, waddling in circles around him and then Patrick and then back to his parents again. Jonny watches him for a few minutes, amused at the adorable way he watches all of them watching him, enjoying being the center of attention. He makes another circle and is almost to Patrick when he skids and lets go of his balloons to steady himself. Patrick manages to catch the purple one before it floats away, but the green is already gone, windswept up into the sky and soon disappearing behind the muddy clouds.

Big, blue eyes stare up at Patrick on the verge of tears. Jonny watches Patrick work his Patrick magic, quickly using the purple balloon to distract the kid until he’s giggling and happy and utterly charmed by Patrick’s goofy expression. He shuffles back to his parents then, Patrick joining Jonny. He furrows his brow.

“What’s that face for?”

“Nothing,” Jonny says, working his smile into something that isn’t stretching his mouth so wide.

He reaches for Patrick’s hand. It’s not a premeditated thing, even if it is intentional. The only people nearby don’t seem to know them or care and their bodies are angled in such a way it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone but them. It’s not asking for much, Jonny thinks. Just Patrick’s hand in his, just for now when the world feels uncomplicated and yielding around them.

Patrick glances down at Jonny’s hand, two fingers looped over his wrist and for one horrible, excruciatingly perfect moment Jonny actually believes Patrick is going to fit their hands together. As soon as the hope appears, however, it’s gone, rising and popping like that little boy’s green balloon.

“No,” Patrick says, hushed and severe. 

Jonny nods, turns away.

The rain is letting up now, in a few minutes they’ll be able to walk to lunch or home.

He can see their reflection in the silver curves of the sculpture, the way the both of them are mirrored not quite right, distorted and jagged.

He closes his eyes, feels the breeze wash over him and thinks about later – how Patrick will apologize and tell Jonny he loves him and it’ll all be okay.

Except it won’t. It won’t be okay. He’s not okay. 

But he’ll look Patrick in the eyes and tell him he loves him too. Above everything else he knows that's true.


	7. Chapter 7

It's quiet in Winnipeg.  
  
Jonny's not expecting different, not really. It's the summer in Canada. People are out on the lake and his mom's calling him about his annual Canadian Tire sponsorship. It's all normal, or an approximation of. Still, it's almost too quiet compared to the ever-present buzzing movement and noise of Tampere, a constant simmering energy in the air everywhere he went.  
  
He tries to keep busy. Yoga, Pilates, weight lifting, running, strength training, careful meal preparation and supplement intake. His basement gym is divided into two rooms, one for weight lifting and the other cardio. He’s set off a smaller space for aerobics and stretching, but it feels cramped the longer he’s down there, stifling.

He wants it gone, preferably now.  
  
“What if I just tore down the wall?” he asks his dad one Sunday afternoon.  
  
“Is it load bearing?”  
  
Jonny laughs, glances at the mallet he bought the day before propped against said wall. “I haven’t even the slightest idea.”  
  
His dad sighs. “Let me grab my tools and I’ll be over in an hour. Don’t touch anything until I get there.”  
  
And that’s how Jonny's summer project begins.  
  
*  
  
There’s sawdust in his hair and flecks of Icicle and Quicksilver gray paint swatches on his arms when the doorbell rings a few weeks later.  
  
Jonny ignores it, or attempts to, because he’s in the sanding zone and not particularly interested in being interrupted. Only the ringing turns to knocking, turns to pounding, and it’s fairly clear whoever’s at his door isn’t going away anytime soon.  
  
Which is why it makes perfect sense that that person is Veebee.  
  
“Can I help you?” Jonny asks, pissy and unwelcoming.  
  
He hasn’t seen Veebee since they left Finland. To be honest he was perfectly happy not seeing him for the rest of the summer.  
  
Perhaps Veebee can read his mind or he’s projecting this thought blatantly across his face because a slow, amused smile spreads itself over Veebee’s mouth. He muscles his way past Jonny, smacking him on the back as he walks inside.  
  
“Nice to see you too, Toews. Heard you haven’t been out much lately.”  
  
Jonny follows him into the kitchen. He’s unsure how Veebee knows where his kitchen is at or how he thinks he’s allowed to just start digging through Jonny’s refrigerator, but he doesn’t stop him either.  
  
He does glare, though. “I’ve been keeping busy.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“We’re going out. Get your shit together,” Veebee says, pulling the makings of what looks to be a sandwich from Jonny’s fridge. “Where’s your bread?”  
  
“I don’t eat it. And I’m not going out, I’m working.”  
  
Veebee rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t eat bread. That’d require you actually enjoy something.”  
  
He abandons the food he took from the fridge and disappears from the room before Jonny can even think of an acceptable retort. Not that he owes him one anyway. Instead of following after him he sets about shelving the tomatoes, lettuce, and deli meats back in place.  
  
“LET’S GO TOEWS,” Veebee yells.  
  
There’s a lot of questions Jonny appreciate having answered, like: _where the fuck did you find my fishing gear,_ or _why_ _do you have my fishing gear,_ or _why are you in my house,_ or maybe even _dear god why me?_ He suspects if he asked he wouldn’t approve of the answers.  
  
“If I ignore you, will you go away?”  
  
“See and find out.”  
  
Jonny huffs. “If I go with you, will you go away?”  
  
Veebee grins. “See and find out.”  
  
Jonny stomps his feet and goes.  
  
*  
  
The sky is overcast, a cloudy, muddy gray that has the muggy air around them feeling thick and sticky. His phone tells him it’s not going to rain until later in the evening, but even so it leaves the part of the lake they take the boat to calm and unbothered. Jonny hates to admit it, but after he catches his first and then second fish, a 30-centimeter Halibut larger than either of Veebee’s grabs, something loosens in the pit of his stomach. It’s not so much like the unraveling a knot, but the quieting of an endless, piercing static.  
  
The boat gently sways in a way that lures Jonny’s eyes closed, his snapback shading his face from the reflection of the lake. He’s just about to doze off when Veebee starts talking, something about Sean Lafaye and The Advocate and an interview. It’s not a small deal within the hockey world, not Lafaye or this interview. That Veebee’s bringing it up to him now of all times though? That part catches Jonny off-guard.  
  
“What do you know about it?” Jonny snaps.  
  
Veebee smirks, a sign Jonny’s noticing happens whenever he manages to earn a reaction. “I hear things. I know stuff.”  
  
Jonny huffs. “Vague.”  
  
It’s silent for a while, long enough that Jonny thinks the conversation might end there, but then Veebee clears his throat, wipes a hand over his sweaty brow.  
  
“I used to play with his younger brother Aiden when we were in Bantam AAA in Québec. Sometimes he told me about how his parents would tell Sean to keep it quiet, how they'd tell Aiden to tell Sean to keep it quiet. I guess the guilt fucked him up for a while. I remember being mad at Sean for years for making his family go through that.”  
  
“You…" Jonny starts and stops himself, tries to gather his thoughts. “You were mad at him for wanting to be himself?”  
  
There’s an expectation here that Veebee will laugh the question off, or deflect it, so Jonny’s surprised for the second time that day when he receives a genuine answer instead.  
  
“Yeah. I was. But all I saw was how it was tearing his family apart, what it was doing to my buddy.”  
  
“I guarantee you it was a thousand times harder for Sean,” he says, looking away.  
  
“I'm getting that,” Veebee replies, low. “Anyway I still keep in touch with Aiden, that's how I know. And you should do it.”  
  
“Do what?”  
  
“An interview with The Advocate.”  
  
Jonny laughs dryly, “No. Not a chance. Why would I do that?”  
  
“Because I think you're tired of being quiet too.”  
  
It’s like razor wire around his neck for the way his throat feels thick suddenly, air gone from his lungs and a stinging sharpness at the corner of his eyes. He shakes himself as Veebee slaps him on the back once more, lightning fast and biting.  
  
“C’mon, you old queen, enough of this feelings bullshit. Back to business.”  
  
“Fuck off,” Jonny growls, but he’s maybe smiling just a little bit too.  
  
*  
  
The following week his mom stops by to take him to brunch and bicker at him in French about spending too much time in his basement. Jonny let’s her speak her peace like an obedient son, because there are any number of people in the world Jonny will never back down from, but his mother isn’t one of them.  
  
She tells him about how her vegetable garden is progressing, how her friend Lucy is coping with her Diverticulitis, and how she’s put his father on a diary free diet recently. He asks after David and Margot, hears the latest news of Sunny and her new pet bunny, Harry Styles. He’s distracted the entire time, he knows. He catches the way his mom keeps giving him looks when he asks her to repeat herself, his attention wandering away, gaze distant.  
  
For once he’s more distracted thinking about the Sean LaFaye interview than he is with what happened in back in Finland.  
Should he do it? Should he not do it? He keeps weighing the pros and cons again and again.  
  
“Jonathan, are you listening?” His mom asks, waving her hand in front of his face.  
  
Jonny smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, maman. What did you say?”  
  
“What’s wrong?” she asks, worried.  
  
“Nothing, just thinking.”  
  
She eyes him suspiciously. “Well something is going on. Come now, tell me what it is. You know I’ll get it out of you eventually.”  
  
Jonny huffs a laugh. That’s absolutely true. The woman is relentless. The thing is if he tells his mother about the interview then he has to tell her about himself. It’s not a subject he’s ever explicitly withheld from his parents; it just wasn’t a something they really ever talked about either, his love life. He brought a few girlfriends home during college and in his early twenties, and his parents were always cordial, welcoming. But it wasn’t ever a discussion they had, with David either, about who he was dating, or when he would date, or why. It was known that he should be responsible, safe, and smart, and that’s where it ended. Hockey and education were the highest priority in the Toews household at all times. It was the way they all preferred it.  
  
“I know I told you I was leaving Chicago because I needed a change, but…,” he trails off, unsure how to proceed.  
  
His mom, of course, is not.  
  
“But it was about Patrick,” she says. It isn’t a question.  
  
“You knew?” Jonny sputters, eyebrows near his goddamn hairline.  
  
She laughs, her eyes kind as she reaches out to squeeze his hand. “Of course I knew, mon cher. I’ve known since you were eighteen.”  
  
“What?! _I_ didn’t even know at eighteen. No way.”  
  
He blinks at her unbelieving. All this time and she never, ever, asked. Or even let on that she was aware.  
  
“That’s because you were young, stupid and so very willing to mistake desire for anger and competition.”  
  
“Maman,” he scowls.  
  
She laughs again. “I’m just telling you the truth, Jonathan.”  
  
At least one of them is amused here.  
  
Jonny scrubs a palm over his face. “Ugh. That’s not why I brought this up, besides it’s over now so.”  
  
“Is it over?” she asks, searching.  
  
_I don’t know_ , he thinks. _No._  
  
He says, “Look, there’s an interview for a magazine. I’m not sure if I should do it.”  
  
She hesitates like she’s aware of his lame attempts at deflection and is caught deciding on whether or not she’s willing to let them pass. “What kind of interview?”  
  
“It’d be with Sean LaFaye, possibly. For The Advocate,” Jonny says.  
  
“I’m familiar,” she nods. And of course she is, she keeps up with the on goings of the NHL almost as much as any general manager he’s ever seen.  
  
There’s the sound of someone’s cell going off in the background. Jonny pulls his from his pocket and checks it on autopilot. No messages or missed calls for once, just a few tweets and an alert from the NHL app about a trade in Philly. When he looks back up his mom’s giving him the most exasperated, expectant expression ever for making her wait while he messes with his phone during a meal.  
  
“It’d be a big change,” he states.  
  
“And leaving Chicago was not?”  
  
Well…she makes a good point.  
  
“You came all the way here for a reason, yes?” she asks, leaning forward in her seat to clasp his hand better.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then do not let it go to waste.” She says, full of warmth and emotion and the kind of determination that’s been so integral to the mother Jonny’s always known.  
  
He covers her hand with both of his own.  
  
*  
  
Sean Lafaye is tall, taller than Jonny’s 6'2" by a few inches and lanky as a rope. He's not what one would call conventionally attractive, his jaw too square and his nose too long, but there's something handsome about him all the same. He’s second generation Swiss, his mother American and his father Quebecois so he’s pale all over and shockingly blond, his eyes a bright sea foam green.  
  
He’s more composed than most veterans Jonny knows, hands laid over his lap and back ramrod straight as Jonny introduces himself. It’s flattering that Sean seems more flummoxed by meeting him than he is about the interview.  
  
They chat amongst themselves for a bit, swapping stories about Monahan and Brouwer when The Advocate journalist arrives, bustling about and full of too much excess energy like all the other New Yorkers Jonny knows.  
  
The interview starts off focusing heavily on Sean and his upbringing, his family life, and experiences growing up Montreal. This was supposed to be Sean’s interview entirely, and Jonny hadn’t meant to impose. Only when Brisson had called him to let Jonny know the magazine was more than interested in interviewing Jonny for their July issue, he was informed they’d rather do an article on rookie and veteran coming out stories. It hadn’t been Jonny’s plan, to step in and try to take away any of Sean’s limelight, or piggyback off of the very real and courageous moment Sean was using this platform as to tell his story. In fact, at first he’d declined, saying he’d be happy to be apart of a future issue. It was Sean who’d contacted him at the last minute and assured Jonny that having someone there, another player, and not only that but one of his idols to help him through this moment, would mean the world to him.  
  
Jonny tried to be as gracious and humble about Sean’s request as the offer warranted. Which is why it’s almost funny in a way that Sean’s presence, his cool and collected demeanor, is what’s helping to keep Jonny in check right now.  
  
He’s never been one to fiddle or anxiously squirm much, uses that energy to focus on what he can control instead of what he can’t. Still, listening to Sean talk about his famous 2019 Calder winning speech has something clenching tight and sharp inside of him. Jonny can still remember watching it from the crowd. He’d been nominated for the Selke again that year, Patrick the Rocket Richard. He’d sat two rows ahead of Jonny with his sisters and parents, a thing Jonny had pretended to not be bothered by at the time.  
  
Sean’s face had been blotchy and red around the apples of his cheeks when he went up on stage to receive his award, his voice tremulous and wavering. But his words, his words had been bold.  
  
_"I can’t tell you how much this means to me, how much I wanted this year to go well. I’m happy to say it did and hope for more success in the future. Thank you to the fans, my fellow nominees, and everyone who voted for me. And especially thank you to my parents and my boyfriend Anthony. Your love and support mean the world to me. I wouldn't be here without you!"_  
  
At the time Jonny had been too focused on waiting to see if Patrick looked back at him to notice the crowds reaction. It’d seemed eerily quiet, the blood rushing to his ears. He’d felt exposed in that instant, more than he could remember feeling in years. He’d wanted so badly to grab Patrick’s hand, to reassure him, to reassure himself that…he wasn’t even sure, that they were okay, no matter what anyone thought or what anyone would say they would be okay. He could remember wanting to go up to Sean after the ceremony and wish him well, let him know he had a shoulder to lean on if he needed it.  
  
But he didn’t and Patrick hadn’t and the world had moved on.  
  
Once the interviewer, Damon, is finished going through a brief history of Sean’s past leading up to his coming out he moves forward with the standard ‘Hey, so you’re gay now!’ questions Jonny’s seen others asked a thousand times.  
  
Questions like: _When did you first know you were gay? Or at least not straight? Is being gay a choice? Should everyone come out? Why did you decide to come out when you did? What were people’s reactions? What advice would you give to someone wanting to come out?_  
  
Jonny lets Sean take the lead on most of the questions, not because he wouldn’t like to answer, but because being as new to the process as he is, he feels useless and unhelpful in the advice he can give. He’s starting to think him being here for this entire interview was a waste of Sean and Damon’s time when he’s asked, “You might have been pressured to not come out, but did you ever feel like you were pressured to come out before you were ready?”  
  
Sean bows his head, and takes a long breath. It’s the most ruffled Jonny’s seen him all afternoon.  
  
He thinks back to what Veebee said about Sean’s parents and his brother Aiden, he thinks about his own parents and the guilt and fear he’s felt about wanting to be himself and not wanting to let anyone down, especially those he loves. It’s like pulling the dusty webbing from his eyes, clearing his vision for the first time.  
  
He can see a little better now what Patrick might’ve been going through.  
  
“I think,” he says, speaking up when Sean cannot, “I think as athletes we put an immense amount of pressure on ourselves all the time to be good, to be better, the best even. So when you add the pressure of feeling like you have to hide or reveal your sexual orientation, it can be extremely overwhelming on either side. It can also be incredibly hard to understand. For those that feel like they have to hide but want to come out, it's claustrophobic almost, not being able to fully share the person you are with the world. For those that don't feel comfortable coming out yet...I can imagine it's terrifying. Not knowing if you'll be accepted, or if people will try to invalidate you, especially as an athlete when you've worked so hard to get where you are. I'm...I’m so sorry for everyone that's had to go through that.”  
  
*  
  
In July he gets a call from Brent.  
  
He’s taking a short break from his basement makeover when his phone rings. There’s sweat pouring off of him from head to toe, dirt and grime all over his hands. Usually he’d ignore whoever it is, for a few reasons. One being that since the interview came out he’s been getting a thousand calls from everyone, most notably his parents who he’s talked with several times now, in person and over the phone, also his agent and the Jets management, his teammates, Hawks old and new, his brother’s friend’s boyfriend’s cousin who’s scared of coming out and needs someone to talk to.  
  
Jonny’s talked so much he’s actually physically tired of talking, tired of his own damn voice. Patrick would die laughing at that if he were here, Jonny’s more than sure.  
  
“Sometimes you like to talk just to hear yourself speak.” Patrick would say as he patted Jonny’s cheek, like they were some sixty-year old married couple.  
  
“No I don’t,” Jonny would counter, stubborn and ego bruised.  
  
Patrick, of course, would laugh and laugh until Jonny got excessively more wound up, finally crawling into his lap to kiss the frown away before the whole thing escalated into a fight.  
  
The memory makes him smile now, for the briefest of seconds, before it dissolves into something bitter on his tongue.  
  
The phone rings again.  
  
He picks it up as much because he needs a distraction as because he hasn’t talked to Seabs in months and he misses him more than a little.  
  
They talk for a while about the same old shit, hockey and family and how their summer breaks have gone. Brent tells him about teaching Carter to ride a bike and buying Kenzie Bell half of Build-A-Bear the weekend before last. He asks about Jonny’s family and gives his condolences about the World Championships. It’s an effortless conversation, light, too easy.  
  
That’s when he drops the bomb on Jonny’s head.  
  
“Look there's something you need to know and I didn't want you finding out through some random dickfuck.”  
  
“Okay,” Jonny says, jaw tight.  
  
“Kaner's dating.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Or well he's with someone,” Brent says, quieter. “Her name's Amy. I met her during the convention.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Stop saying okay!”  
  
Jonny tries to think, but his head suddenly feels full of too many thoughts and nothing all at once. “I need to go,” he answers, his words cracking.  
  
“Jon….”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I read the article. You did good, kid. I wanted you to know that too,” he says, and any other time that would mean more to Jonny than he could express, but the air feels trapped in his lungs and the floor wobbly underneath him.  
  
“I...I should go. Thanks for telling me. I'll talk to you soon.”  
  
He hangs up before Brent can reply, walks over to the liquor cabinet and opens the strongest thing he can find.  
  
Then he drinks until he pukes.  
  
*  
  
The summer stretches out for a while as one endless week of sameness after another. It's not that Jonny isn't used to that familiar beat; a hockey player's life is one built around schedules and routines that never change. Still, there's only so much training and healthy living reading he can do before he gets restless.  
  
He thinks about buying a ticket to Britain, maybe Ireland, and letting himself get lost among the cobbled streets and historical architecture of a culture he's never experienced. It'd be good to get away from everything and everyone for a while. If he could out run his thoughts he'd do that too.  
  
It's ultimately that reason for why he doesn't go. Jonny knows he can spend his summer half way across the world, or in Chicago, he can move to Canada and join a new team and it still won't change what he already knows, he'll never stop wanting Patrick, he'll never stop loving him.  
  
But Patrick doesn’t want him, not really, and now he's already moved on. So all that's left to do is try and accept it, learn to live with it.  
  
Easier said than done.  
  
*  
  
When the season starts the Jets GM approaches him and asks about extending his contract.  
  
“I need to talk to my agent first,” Jonny says. “But I’ll definitely be thinking about.”  
  
He means to call Brisson, but can’t make himself pick up the phone.  
  
*  
  
October and November are hectic. The way their schedule is set up they’re on the road more than they are at home. It helps the team get back into a good groove early on, old teammates reconnecting and new blood finding their place in the puzzle. He’s asked approximately 87 million times about his coming out interview to the point that he can recite his response in his sleep. Otherwise it’s nice to just play and practice and sleep and eat. It’s nice to not have to think about anything but hockey, hockey, hockey.  
  
He watches Patrick play less, some weeks not more than once. It doesn’t make the want ease. And on the days he can catch Patrick as he dances between two defenders at the blue line, take the puck into the slot, do a spin-o-rama, and finish with a backhand into the goal, it brings him joy in a way few things can these days.  
  
*  
  
“I heard about Kane,” Dan tells him one Sunday.  
  
They haven’t seen each other much in the last several months, Dan preoccupied with his new engagement to his longtime girlfriend and Jonny engrossed with his own bullshit.  
  
At Dan’s remark he chokes on the peanut he was swallowing and looks around the bar. It’s a weird phantom of a reaction he still has to Patrick’s name being brought up in conversation. This urge to look around and see if Patrick’s close by, to see if someone’s listening in to Jonny talk about him.  
  
He shakes it off, takes a gulp of beer, says. “How? Wait, you know what? No. I don't want to talk about it.”  
  
Dan shrugs. “The Internet. Twitter to be specific. I bring it up for two reasons.”  
  
“Because you're trying to ruin my buzz?”  
  
“Because you need to move on and because I got you a date.”  
  
“What?!”  
  
“You heard me.”  
  
Jonny huffs out a laugh. “You’re worse than my fucking mom, pal. You got me a date. With who?”  
  
“Aaron. He works in our K-9 unit, loves dogs. You love dogs.”  
  
Jonny rolls his eyes, can’t help it. He knows Dan means well, cares about him, wants the best for him and all of that, but sometimes his common sense fails him. That’s probably why they’re good friends.  
  
“So a blind date.”  
  
“Yup,” Dan says, popping the P loudly, and so very pleased with himself.  
  
Jonny stares at him flatly. “No.”  
  
Dan’s face falls. “Jon, c'mon.”  
  
“I'm really good, thanks. Also I can find my own dates, you shit.”  
  
“Yeah, but you aren't. I'm not saying you have to marry the guy. Just go out for drinks and get your dick sucked.”  
  
Jonny sighs. “Right, because that'll fix everything.”  
  
“If it gets you to stop watching Hawks games and lighten up for five fucking minutes then I'll call it a win,” Dan challenges.  
  
And well, Jonny’s never backed down from one before.  
  
“Fine,” he groans. “Give me his number.”  
  
*  
  
Aaron is cute and also young. Really young.  
  
“How old are you?” Jonny asks almost instantly after they’ve introduced themselves. “Because you look like you're barely eighteen. Uh, sorry.”  
  
Aaron laughs, seemingly unbothered. “I get that a lot. It's cool. I just turned twenty-one last week actually.”  
  
“Twenty-one. Wow. Ever had a fireball? I'll get two,” Jonny says and leaves the booth they're sitting at to head up to the bar.  
  
Twenty-one, god. He has jerseys older than this kid for fuck's sake.  
  
He orders their drinks easily enough. The club he chose is low-key and not overly busy for a Wednesday evening. So he can surreptitiously glance over his shoulder to get a better look, not that he needed to bother, what with Aaron on his phone texting.  
  
He’s very blond and very tan and very…symmetrical. He also looks like he’s more interested in his phone than Jonny.  
  
“Here you go,” he says when he returns to the table, setting the shot in front of Aaron.  
  
“Thanks.” Aaron says around a grin, then downs it before snagging a waitress to order two more and a pitcher of beer. “You want to dance?”  
  
“Um, no. Not really my thing.”  
  
“You sure?” Aaron asks, but he looks more curious than disappointed.  
  
“Yeah, sorry.”  
  
Aaron shrugs, nonchalant. Jonny’s thinking of things to talk about, something about dogs because that’s all that Dan gave him to go on really, when Aaron slips out of the booth and moves toward the dance floor. Jonny watches him, confused, as Aaron finds an attractive guy that looks to be close to his age and sidles up to him.  
  
The night just gets better from there when three drinks in Aaron politely tells him, “Good thing you're a Jet now, because I fucking hate the Hawks, man.”  
  
And:  “You're pretty attractive for an old…older guy.”  
  
And: “You're really boring. But I'd still fuck your butt. You have a great butt.”  
  
By this point Jonny’s trying to hail a cab for Aaron and avoid his hands grabbing at Jonny in ways he’d rather not be touched.  
  
“I’ll pass,” he says through gritted teeth.  
  
Aaron tries to lean on his shoulder, breath rank and lips wet. “Some other time?”  
  
“No other time.”  
  
When a cab finally pulls up he feels only sweet relief.  
  
*  
  
The first week of December they play the Hawks in Chicago. It’s the first time Jonny’s been back since Patrick and he quit whatever it was they were doing there for a while. He’s missed it, the sounds and smells of the city, the way it still feels soul-shatteringly familiar.  
  
They get in late that afternoon, but have a 6:30pm start for the next evening so he has some time to kill before the team bus leaves to take them to the airport. The team’s in a good mood too. It was a close game, but a fun one, fast paced with them winning in OT with a wrap around goal from Wheels.  
  
Jonny’s hanging around outside the Hawks locker room, chatting with Corey, Trevor, and Seabs when he sees a pretty woman with auburn curls walk by. It’s not that girlfriends and wives aren’t allowed back in the Hawks area, it’s just most of them have seen it enough they’d prefer not to deal with the chaos and the smell of ball sweat that clings to the air. So she must be new.  
  
Turns out he’s right when he sees Patrick walk out to greet her a minute later, an arm sneaking around her waist to pull her in for a quick kiss.  
  
For a moment he thinks that maybe someone reached inside his chest and pulled his ribs apart before carving his insides out the way the sharpness of seeing that visual hits him.  
  
They don’t look at him as they pass and Jonny’s more than glad for it. He knows this is what he wanted for Patrick. This was why he left.  
  
Seeing it in the flesh was not something he adequately prepared himself for.  
  
He stops sleeping through the night after that.  
  
*  
  
Christmas comes and goes uneventfully. Dan apologizes for the disaster that was Aaron and Veebee takes him up into the mountains to go snowboarding for a day, hurling insults at him and laughing every time Jonny falls on his ass.  
  
Sharpy calls him on New Years, for what, Jonny’s not sure. The voicemail is short, just a quick ‘call me back, okay’, but Jonny remembers how they left things in Tampere, and he’s tired enough these days from the lack of sleep, the Jets management breathing down his neck about his contract, and his life being a glass full of water always near the point of tipping over that he can’t deal with Sharpy’s very distinctive brand of vicious whiplash love for the time being.  
  
Besides, there’s been rumors he’s going to co-host the All Star Game in Tampa, and as Jonny’s been voted in, the chances of them colliding are almost certain.  
  
*  
  
It happens during the after party, with the taping of the draft finished for the night and most of the players and their families in the hotel’s Grand Ballroom. Jonny runs into Sharpy as he’s heading back from the restroom. Their shoulders bump, making them tilt backwards for an instant before Jonny reaches out to steady Sharpy by the arms.  
  
“Uh, hey,” he says, a little buzzed from the free alcohol.  
  
Sharpy squints at him. “Thanks for calling me back.”  
  
“I’ve been busy,” Jonny tries.  
  
“I bet.”  
  
“I have been!” he bites out, pursing his lips.  
  
“I can tell. You look like shit.”  
  
“Thanks,” he smiles meanly.  
  
Sharpy laughs. “You’re so predictable, Tazer. Jesus Christ. Come here.”  
  
He wraps Jonny in a tight bear hug, the kind that’s a little to rough to feel good, but there’s something about it all the same, something comforting.  
  
“Look,” he says very seriously. “I need to tell you two things. The first is that I shouldn’t have left things the way I did at Worlds. I’m not sorry for what I said, but I shouldn’t have been a prick about it. I don’t want you hurt either. But you get why I was pissed, right?”  
  
He’s still got Jonny in a vice-like hold so Jonny’s nod goes mostly unnoticed as does the lump in his throat he has to swallow down. “Yeah, I know.”  
  
“Okay,” Sharpy says, exhales slowly. “The second is that I can’t believe they’re still picking you for these things. I mean has the league dried up or what the fuck?”  
  
Jonny shoves him away, hard.  
  
Sharpy pushes him back, playful, pinching at the sensitive skin of Jonny’s underarm because he’s an asshole and he knows where it stings the most.  
  
Their scrabbling must gather the attention of more than a few people because when Jonny looks up he sees several pairs of eyes on them, notably Patrick’s. It’s the first time they’ve looked at each other dead on since the hotel room.  
  
“You gonna go talk to him?” Sharpy says, senses keen as ever.  
  
“I thought I should stay away _?_ Now I should go talk to him? Make up your mind, Sharpy.”  
  
“I think you two have been staring at each other all night because you clowns don’t understand the meaning of subtle. I’ll let you take it from there,” he says, but he pushes Jonny in Patrick’s general direction anyway.  
  
If he were going to make the move to talk to him it might as well be now. Patrick’s been surrounded by his parents and Amy for most of the night. Jonny’s tried not to watch. There’s only so much self-flagellation even he can take before it’s overwhelming. Still, it’s difficult not to notice the two of them together. Patrick’s gorgeous in his gray suit, fitted all over and with a blue tie that sets off the devastating color of his eyes. Meanwhile Amy’s in a tight black number, her auburn hair in long flowing waves that look burnished around her shoulders. She’s tiny, not just compared to Patrick, but to everyone. The top of her head barely hitting his chin, and yet, they seem to fit together in a way that makes something hot and possessive spike through every part of Jonny.  
  
She’s not with him now, and neither are Donna or Tiki.  
  
He considers turning around and leaving. He considers it and then goes to Patrick anyway.  
  
“Hey, Kaner.”  
  
“Hey,” Patrick says coolly, hands shoved in his pockets.  
  
Jonny wonders if he’s rubbing the tips of his fingers together, a nervous habit Jonny’s caught him doing too many times to count over the years.  
  
“How are you doing?” he asks, stilted and awkward.  
  
If he could just reach out and rub his thumb over Patrick’s plump bottom lip, work away the distant expression off his face.  
  
“Do you care?” Patrick spits back.  
  
Jonny makes a sound in the back of his throat, steps closer until they’re only a foot apart. “Of course I do.”  
  
“Right,” Patrick sneers.  
  
“I just want you to be happy. Earlier...with...you looked happy.”  
  
“You don’t,” Patrick counters and Jonny doesn’t argue. He can’t.  
  
“Are you? Happy?”  
  
“My mom thinks I should ask Amy to marry me. She wants more grandkids. And for me to settle down. But mostly the grandkid thing, I think.”  
  
Jonny tries to breathe. He pulls at the collar of his button down, steps closer.  
  
“You want a family.” He says, and he’s only inches away now, hovering over Patrick, completely in his orbit.  
  
“I do,” Patrick says as he pulls his hands from his pockets.  
  
“I know,” Jonny whispers, ducking his head down. It’s exactly why he put them through all of this. It’s the entire reason he tore himself in two.  
  
“Thing is,” Patrick says, voice low as he circles Jonny’s wrists with his warm hands. “I wanted it with you.”  
  
Maybe he shouldn’t be, maybe he shouldn’t, but Jonny’s utterly struck by those words. He has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from pushing forward and sealing Patrick’s mouth to his, the want is so strong.  
  
“An-and now you have someone that can give it to you without complications,” he stutters out.  
  
It’s the wrong thing to say, or possibly the right thing because it has Patrick dropping Jonny’s hands and stepping back several feet, that shuttered look plastered over every available inch of him.  
  
“Hey Jon?”  
  
“Yeah?” he asks, knowing whatever comes next will bruise.  
  
“Go fuck yourself.”  
  
He’s gone when Jonny can manage to lift his head again.  
  
*  
  
The rest of January is just a precursor to how the remainder of the regular season pans out - ups and downs, with them working up a good momentum to finish things out. They’re third in the central division come playoffs, just ten points above the Hawks and twenty-six behind the Avs who take first.  
  
They even make it past the Preds in the first round, only to be ousted 4-2 by the Hawks in the second.  
  
Corey’s got a pulled groin muscle, Brent’s back and knee are giving him pains, and he knows Patrick’s hip is aching from when Buff rammed him into the visitors' bench in game three. So it’s not exactly shocking when the Hawks don’t make it through the western conference final, even if it still pains Jonny to see them fail.  
  
*  
  
He’s sitting at the breakfast bar in his kitchen in late May, scrolling through websites about swimming with the dolphins in Fiji when his phone goes off. It’s one of two messages at first, just the quick _woosh-ping_ of his text alert. Five minutes later it’s six or seven, then ten, rapid fire all at once, _woosh-ping-woosh-woosh-ping-ping-woosh-woosh-woosh-ping-ping-PING_!  
  
He snatches his phone up expecting the worse, someone in trouble, someone hurt, or god forbid, someone dead.  
  
It’s none of those things. It takes him a moment to parse out what the real news is from all the excited freaking out, nonsensical capitalization, and emojis. It’s his mom, out of everyone, that provides the most helpful answer, one simple text with a link attached that says: _You should watch this, Jonathan_.  
  
He clicks the link that directs him to a Youtube video, the title of it is _You Can Play – Patrick Kane._  
  
The video opens with the Blackhawks logo on a white background which fades into Patrick standing against a sandy beige wall. His hair is perfectly in place for once, the black polo setting off the pale column of his neck.  
  
When he starts speaking his voice is the same kind of monotone that he uses for every post game interview Jonny’s ever heard. He talks about making a pledge and having respect for his teammates, coaches, and fans. He talks about the importance of not judging others for who they are or whom they love. And as he goes on Jonny can feel the thunderous pounding of his own heart as it threatens to burst.  
  
“It doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re from. On this team we’re a family. If _I_ can play,” Patrick says, voice cracking as he places a steady hand over his heart, “you can play.”  
  
The video fades out and ends.  
  
Jonny watches it four more times before he can manage to set his phone aside. It hasn’t stopped going off. He tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs feel shaky and tight, the earth dizzying and uneven as he stands.  
  
His phone rings. It’s David.  
  
“Did you watch the video?” he asks as soon as Jonny answers.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Did you look at Twitter?”  
  
Jonny blinks, confused. “No?”  
  
“Check it, now. Go.”  
  
For one brief second he wants to lash out, because if this is just his brother’s way to get him to read shitty tweets about Patrick he’s not having it. David’s better than that though, and he knows this. Instead he pulls up Twitter on his laptop and sure enough Patrick Kane’s trending worldwide. He clicks through to Patrick’s page and reads the first tweet, which is actually a retweet of someone asking him a question. It says _@88PKane did u just come out?_ , to which the only reply is one word.  
  
_Yes_.  
  
*  
  
Jonny waits two hours before he calls. He knows Patrick’s phone is without a doubt blowing up right now - to the point that he’s probably had to turn it off. He should be patient and call later. He should.  
  
But he can’t. He thinks he might actually lose his goddamn mind if he doesn’t get to talk to Patrick soon.  
  
Predictably it goes right to voicemail. He tries again. And again. And again. He tries so many times he loses track and his phone dies.  
  
He forces himself to go for a run. Then he does a full circuit of weightlifting in his basement, showers afterwards and drinks what might be half a gallon of water.  
  
When he finally allows himself to pick up his phone again he’s got forty-two text messages from everyone he doesn’t currently give a fuck about and one from Patrick.  
  
_Did I uncomplicate things for you_ , it says _._  
  
*  
  
The following week is a special kind of torture in that every time his phone rings or beeps he’s hoping it’s Patrick returning one of his fifty voicemails. It never is. Instead it’s friends and family and reporters who shouldn’t have his number trying to get him to answer questions about Patrick. Eventually he stops calling every hour on the hour hoping Patrick will pick up and talk to him. This is clearly a message and that message is: fuck off.  
  
Which is why Jonny isn’t expecting it when eight days after the You Can Play video is released Patrick finally answers on the third ring and gives Jonny a soft, “Hey.”  
  
"Hi," Jonny says, pulse quickening. “How are you?”  
  
“Did you see the video?” He asks and he sounds sleepy, like he just woke from a nap or hasn’t slept well the night before.  
  
Jonny wants to see his face so badly he has to fist his free hand in the fabric of his shirt just for something to grasp onto. “I did. Patrick...”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I'm so proud of you. Whatever anyone else says, whatever else happens, be proud of yourself.”  
  
There’s a beat or two where neither of them speak.  
  
Eventually Patrick says, quiet, “Amy broke up with me.”  
  
“Oh,” Jonny murmurs, frozen. “I'm sorry.”  
  
“Ask me why?”  
  
“You don't owe an explanation.”  
  
Patrick makes a frustrated sound, voice agitated. “Just fucking ask me why, okay.”  
  
“Why?” he breathes, on the edge and slipping.  
  
“Because she saw us talking in Tampa and she saw me afterwards and she wanted to know...about us. Because she asked if I was over you and I said no,” Patrick replies and then the line goes dead.  
  
Jonny digs his heels in, pulls himself back up.  
  
This time he doesn’t let himself fall.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight hours. That’s how long Jonny waits. Just eight hours, but it feels like an eternity.

He doesn’t call back right away. Or, well, he does, but Patrick’s phone goes straight to voicemail. He hangs up. Then he stops and replays the last few minutes in his head – Patrick’s words, the video, the tweet, the ‘I’m not over you.’ Patrick came out. He came out in front of hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of people. He came out and he’s single and fuck, Jonny can’t just sit here and not talk to him.

His own phone keeps going off, but it’s just a distraction at this point because none of those people are Patrick and that’s the only person he wants to hear from. So he paces, making a huge circle from his living room to the foyer, to the kitchen, and back. It’s like he’s holding his breath under water the entire time. A stinging tightness is filling his lungs and chest; his fists clenched at his sides, arms straight like two stony pillars. He forces himself to sit down and take measured inhales and exhales, eyes closed as he counts backwards from ten.

This goes on for a while.

Once he can focus enough to think clearly, he realizes two things: Patrick isn’t going to call him, and he can’t stay here. If he stays here and does nothing, he’ll lose his fucking mind.

He calls Brisson.

He calls Stan.

He calls Seabs because he needs someone to tell him to calm down, shut the fuck up, pack a bag, and fix it.

By the time he’s off his computer and in his car, his phone has stopped beeping every five seconds at him, the messages and calls too many to count. He’ll worry about that later. For now he has to make it to the airport.

Eight hours. That’s how long it takes. Eight hours and then Jonny’s on a plane out of Winnipeg.

*

It’s early morning by the time he arrives in Buffalo, the sun having risen enough to make the sky a faded, dusty blue. He grabs his duffle from baggage claim, then rents a car - some black sedan with shiny chrome wheels. The streets are mostly empty at this hour, garbage trucks and runners passing him by as he drives through Patrick’s neighborhood.

When he pulls up to the gate, he doesn’t see any of Patrick’s vehicles out front and he’s suddenly hit with the shocking thought that Patrick might not be here. It’s the offseason, yes, and he often comes back to New York for at least some part of every summer, but he’s spent the majority of his time these last few years in Chicago. He might not even be in Buffalo right now, let alone this house. It’s a sobering realization, but it’s not going to stop him. Not after the video and Patrick’s phone call. If he isn’t here, Jonny will fly to Illinois. He’d fly to California or Florida or fucking Russia if he has to.

The key code to get through Patrick’s gate hasn’t changed. It’s not really surprising, even if it annoys Jonny all the same. He’s told Patrick for years he needs to change the key code every six to twelve months like the installer advised in case of breaks in.

Don’t kick a gift horse in the mouth, moron, he can hear Sharpy say.

Parking at the side of the house, by the garage, Jonny takes a moment to check himself in the rearview mirror. The bags under his eyes are red and puffy, his hair too long and matted down at the front from wearing a snapback all night. His clothes are musty and smell like airplane. This is not one of his better moments, but he’s here, dammit, and it’s all he’s got.

It feels weird to ring the doorbell to a house he once considered his own, one he used to have a key to. There’s something weirdly formal about it, more so than waiting to be let in at Patrick’s apartment in Chicago.

There are birds chirping in the tree nearby, the ground still a little wet from when it must’ve rained a few hours before. Jonny waits with his hands shoved in his pockets, the key to the rental car digging into his wrist.

When the door opens, Patrick’s eyes are slit thin like he just woke up, his curls fluffy and untamed. There’s a deep pillow crease on the side of his right cheek, just above the golden reddish-blond stubble that will become a beard if he doesn’t shave soon. He’s wearing a soft gray t-shirt with a Bauer logo on it and black sweatpants that hang low around his hips.

Jonny wants to touch him so badly he has to dig his fingers into his palms.

“Hi,” he says quietly.

Patrick blinks at him. Then he blinks again. “It’s 5:30 in the morning,” he says. “Go away.”

Then he closes the door in Jonny’s face.

It’s not the reception Jonny was exactly expecting, but then, it could’ve gone much worse.

He rings the doorbell again.

Nothing happens.

He rings it five more times, but by the sixth he realizes Patrick’s probably gone back to bed and he’s purposefully choosing not to answer the door. This leaves Jonny with the option to stay and wait until Patrick’s ready to talk, or leave, maybe find a hotel, then come back later.

He takes a seat on the front steps and makes himself comfortable. It might be a while.

*

Around noon, Jonny’s still on the steps of Patrick’s front door with little indication from inside that he’ll be let in soon or that there’s even been much movement. The sun is high in the sky, but luckily there’s enough shade from the awning that it’s not beaming down on him completely. Still, the air is humid and cloyingly thick, sweat dripping from his temples, the creases of his elbows, and the small of his back.

He’s texted Patrick twice, called him once, and rung the doorbell four more times to no avail. He’s reached a new high score on Fruit Ninja, though.

Taking stock of his supplies includes two water bottles, a Gatorade, and half a power bar. Jonny figures he can make it at least another seven hours before he’ll be in dire straits.

His phone is about twenty minutes away from dying, but that’s really inconsequential at this point. The only person he wants to talk to is less than fifteen meters away.

He can wait. He will wait.

*

At three pm, Jonny realizes he’s greatly underestimated not only the New York heat, his ability to withstand it, his food supplies, and his own sanity without his phone to keep him busy, but also his own patience. He’s gone over what he wants to say to Patrick a hundred times in his head by this point, all the things he should say and all the things he shouldn’t. It’s just stupid conversations in his head if Patrick doesn’t open the door though. It means nothing if Patrick won’t even try to talk to him, let him do something, anything, to make this better. Make them better.

A tan Range Rover pulls up in the drive just as Jonny’s started to drift off, head and shoulder wedged against the pillar next to the steps he’s on.

It’s Erica.

She doesn’t appear surprised to see him, which means she’s probably talked to Patrick.

“Hey, BK,” he says as she walks up to the steps. His voice is scratchy from disuse, his throat dry.

She gives him an unimpressed look at the nickname, something he came up with back when he and Patrick were rookies. _Better Kane_ , he’d call all of Patrick’s sisters, both to piss him off and keep the running joke going that he didn’t actually remember any of their names.

Erica grins at him darkly. “Hi, prick.”

“I suppose you’ve come out here to tell me to take a hike?”

She fiddles with the keys in her hand until she comes up with the one for Patrick’s front door. Then she looks him over, surveying. “Hah, no. Don’t get me wrong, part of me reeeeeeally wants to. And you deserve it, but. It would just end up hurting Patty more, and that’s the last thing we all want to do. Right?”

Her eyes narrow viciously in his direction.

“Right. Yes.” He nods. “Definitely.”

“Okay, good.”

“Okay,” he echoes, and watches her unlock the door to step inside. Before she shuts and locks it behind her, she turns back to him, her expression sharp like razor blades and fierce.

“So no leaving?”

“No leaving,” he says, tilting his chin up, determined.

The door closes.

*

“Thirsty?” Erica asks, some hours later.

Jonny’s not sure of the time at this point; his phone is dead and his water is gone. The sun is closer to the horizon now, but still a burst of golden yellow. He feels something cool tap his shoulder and glances up to see the proffered bottle of juice she has in her hand.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says. His smile is tight around his dry lips and overheated cheeks.  It’s just hot enough to be truly uncomfortable, especially for someone who leaks like a faucet as he does.

“Sure.” Erica hums, acting as if she’s going to make a move to walk past him. Instead she slips forward and takes a seat on the steps, folding her arms into her lap and brushing a wispy blond lock from her face.

She studies him for a long moment. Long enough Jonny waits for her to say something, cut him down or cuss him out. When nothing comes, he purses his lips, scratching at the back of his neck restlessly.

“Can I come in yet?”

“It’s not up to me.”

“Maybe wanna put in a good word for me then,” he tries on a weak laugh.

It’s not funny. It’s nowhere even in the planetary system of funny and Erica expresses that by the scathing look she gifts him in return.

“Or not. That’s fine.” He nods, wipes at the layers of sweat collecting at his hairline.

The silence continues for several more minutes, in which the both of them stare out at Patrick’s front lawn and further out into the street where they can see a few cars go by. Down the block somebody’s dog barks at a car alarm.

“Look,” Erica sighs, “you’re an asshole, I think it’s important you know that. But.”

“But?” Jonny asks, guts churning like stones smacking together.

“Pat wasn’t the only one that was hurt when you left, alright. I loved you too, you know? The whole family did. How could you do that to us, to him?”

“The whole family,” Jonny repeats, and thinks of Patrick’s parents. “How did it go?”

Erica closes her eyes, mouth curving down at the edges. “Jess and Jacks already knew. Dad cried. Mom walked out. She hasn’t talked to him since.”

“Fuck,” Jonny breathes, reaching out and pulling Erica into a hug.

She tenses for a beat before leaning into him, her head resting on his shoulder.

They sit this way for a while, the sky turning into a paint smeared canvas of oranges and reds and purples set on fire.

“It all made sense at the time,” he admits. “I thought it was for the best. That leaving would make it easier for him.”

Erica lifts her head from his shoulder to stare at him as she jabs him in the ribcage with one of her knuckles. “Since when is you two being apart ever been for the best for anybody, most of all Patrick?”

“He’s a lot stronger than he gets credit for,” Jonny says, because it isn’t something he thinks or believes, it’s something he knows better than the smallest, secret parts of himself.

“I know that!” she squawks, indignant. “But you were the fighter, that’s why you guys worked.”

His chest twinges, the backs of his eyelids like sandpaper as he blinks back all of his restless energy, and helpless frustration, and aching, roiling guilt.

“I let everyone down. I let him down.”

Erica places a light hand on his back, at the center of his spine, a touchstone. “It’s not about that. We all fuck up. Nobody expects you to be perfect. Patrick never expected that.”

“Then what?” he chokes out. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Stay,” she says. “You were supposed to stay.”

*

After Erica leaves, he tries the door again. If she was willing to talk to him, even for a few minutes, then maybe Patrick will. Maybe he’s ready.

“Patrick, c’mon,” he calls through the door. “Just open up so we can talk, please. I’m not going anywhere.”

He knocks and knocks and knocks and knocks.

And then the door is abruptly pulled open.

Patrick’s face is a flat mask of nothing, his eyes cold and pale as ice. “Oh, now you’re not leaving?”

Jonny could wilt under that glare if he let himself. It’d be easy for him to give into Patrick’s anger, the muscle memory is still there. Except that won’t get them anywhere. “No.”

Patrick laughs, darkly. “Yeah, right.”

He’s not quite sneering, but his expression is full of almost too many emotions to name and none of them good. Jonny can feel the heat of it sear through him.

The door is slammed closed again before he can reply.

I’ll just be here until you’re ready, he thinks, but doesn’t say. As long as it takes. He’s supposed to meet with Brisson and Stan next week. A meeting he can’t miss. Fuck it anyway. He said he’s not leaving and he’s not. He can’t. He won’t. Patrick is more important than all of that other bullshit – every piece of it.

He falls asleep to the warm swaying breeze and the song of a thousand invisible cicadas.

*

When he wakes, Patrick’s standing a few feet away from him, perched against the opposite pillar at the front of his house with his arms crossed. His expression flat, giving nothing away.

“What do you want?”

Jonny coughs to clear his throat and tries to empty his mind of its sleepy fogginess and fatigue.

“To see you,” he says, voice scratchy raw. “Talk to you. To apologize.”

Patrick’s eyes narrow. “For what?”

“For leaving.”

“Okay. Go ahead,” he states. He’s so close, almost close enough to reach out and touch. It’s been months, but it could’ve been years for the way Jonny yearns all over with the need to pull Patrick close and murmur apologies into his skin.

He stands slowly, muscles sore and joints creaking from sitting in one place for too long, for the lack of restful sleep, for the way he’s been tense for even longer than that.

“Can I come in please?” he asks, stepping forward.

Patrick shuffles back. “No. Do it right here, right now.”

“I’m sorry. I…,” he trails off. There’s so much to say he doesn’t know where to begin. How can he encompass everything that’s happened between them these last few years? The time they were together, the entirety of their careers and what they’ve meant to each other - reduced to a few sentences explaining the choices he’s made? The good, and the bad, and the ones that have brought them to this moment? It’s too much. Too much.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, mouth opening and closing, no words coming out.

Patrick waits, his patience clearly waning with each passing second by the tight line of his mouth, the ticking at the corner of his jaw.

“That’s it?” he says eventually. “That’s all you’ve got? Seriously?”

Jonny does push forward then, hands cupping the thick bulge of Patrick’s biceps to draw him close, to hold him near.

“Kaner.”

His hands are shoved away as Patrick uncrosses his arms and shifts to break the contact. The front door is opened, Patrick moving to walk back inside with Jonny following until they’re in the foyer.

“Patrick,” he tries.

When Patrick spins on him, Jonny freezes. Patrick’s eyes are ablaze, his pale cheeks  faintly ruddy at the top.

“No,” he spits, angry. “No, you shut up. It’s my turn to talk now.”

Jonny drops his arms to his sides, utterly stuck by the savage tone of Patrick’s voice, the intensity of his glare. The cruel curl of something sharp twists in his insides at the way Patrick steps closer, for once.

“You left,” he bites out. “You fucking left - the team, our home, me. Everything we built together. You left and I had to pick up the pieces. And then after, when you were still happy to fuck me, but okay with watching me walk out the door, never trying to stop me, never trying to…”

The edges of his eyes are a pinkish red now, the cadence of his speech slowing, voice thick. “I gave you so many chances. I came to your stupid Winnipeg house, Jon. I spent almost every night with you in Finland. I was there the whole fucking time waiting for you to say something, to change your mind and…But you never did. Even when I looked right at you and told you straight out that I wanted everything with you, something I’ve told you since the beginning, and you just throw it back in my face!”

He looks so stricken, his eyes a glassy reflection, glittery in the dimness of the foyer. Jonny feels destroyed by his words, eviscerated by the raw truth of them and all the things he didn’t see while being caught up in his own pain.

“I know it was always harder for you,” Jonny says low, quiet. “I didn’t want to make it worse.”

Patrick barks out a laugh, the sound a high-pitched thing that comes out a little hysterical and cutting.

“By telling me that I didn’t want us enough, that’s how you weren’t making it worse?! When I put it all on the line to be with you, practically live with you, knowing my parents wouldn’t forgive me and it wasn’t enough, that’s how you don’t make it worse? By leaving? You fucking selfish asshole!”

Jonny touches his wrist, a small caress, to gentle. “Patrick, I’m sorry. Please…”

“Please what?” Patrick snaps, rushing into Jonny’s space and smacking two hands against his chest until he’s forced to stumble backwards. “What?! What do you want, Jonny?” He shouts, voicing rising as Jonny’s shoved again and again and again, until they’re in the living room off of the foyer, every push jerking Jonny backwards in a jagged line. “What?! Fucking say it? Don’t just stand there and stare at me, you shit. Say it. What? WHAT?!?!”

He lands one heavy blow against the center of Jonny’s solar plexus, knocking him off balance enough they both tumble to the floor beside the couch.

Jonny wraps his arms around Patrick even as he struggles, pushes his face into Patrick’s curls at the top of his head and breathes. “I’m so sorry. Fuck. I’m so sorry, Peeks. I’m so fucking sorry…”

Patrick sobs, hands clutching at the front of Jonny’s shirt like he’s not sure if he wants to shove him off or yank him closer. He’s shaking all over, tears making wet tracks over the wreckage of his face, all the hurt and pain mixed together.

“Shhhh. Just let me. Please.” Jonny tightens his arms, blinking rapidly as he draws Patrick to his chest, presses lips to his temple.

With one last shuttered jerk, Patrick exhales sharply and relents, grasping on and clinging with a shuddered breath.

Jonny envelopes him with every last little piece of himself he has to give. Cradling Patrick’s body against his own, the shock waves of their bodies vibrating, as they both breathe and shake and cry. It might last five minutes or ten or fifty for all that Jonny’s aware of the outside world.

The sun is peeking through the windows in sharp contrast to the dark carpet of the living room, a patchwork of light. Above, a ceiling fan spins around and around, the air filtering down cool against his hot cheeks.

They don’t come back to each other all at once, but slowly, like the stilling of a lake after a crashing, cataclysmic storm. They haven’t moved and Jonny’s thankful for it, for the way Patrick’s still pressed tight to the front of him, hands gripped in his shirt and face hiding in the curve of his neck. He feels warm and solid and perfect in Jonny’s arms, better than anything. Anything.

A hand comes up to wipe over Patrick’s face, rotating to the collar of Jonny’s shirt after. He plays with one of the buttonholes for a moment, eyes focused down so Jonny can’t see into them.

He says, softly, “There were days when I wondered what was worth living for. And then there were days when I thought ‘fuck you, I’m still good at hockey, I’m better than you at hockey and I’ll just keep being better than you at fucking hockey’… So see. Even when you weren’t here, you were still giving me a reason to keep going. You shithead.”

Jonny laughs, the sound unsteady. He thinks of all the words he wants to say and all the ways he wants to say them, how it’ll never be good enough. He’ll never be good enough to fix this, to make it better. And deep down he hates himself for that so severely it makes his eyes and throat burn.

All he’s left with is the truth, his truth. He can give Patrick that if nothing else. He deserves it.

“I used to think the worst thing that could ever happen to me was if I lost hockey,” he says. “That’s stupid right? Obviously it’s stupid because there are so many things… So many. I remember that day in Millennium Park. You were talking to that kid and he had these blue eyes. They weren’t quite blue, maybe a little more gray, but they reminded me so much of you. And he was looking up at you like you’d hung the fucking moon and I thought. I thought what if this was our kid. What if we were a family? What if this could be real? But then I reached for your hand and you jerked away and I knew.”

Patrick shifts in his arms. “Knew what?”

“That it was the end.”

Patrick tenses, sits up. “I was right there. I was in it with you. I’d been in it with you since we were eighteen years old. All of this time. So fuck you. That should’ve counted for something.”

Jonny sits forward, grips Patrick’s waist to keep him close. “I’ve loved you and your stupid fucking flip flops for most of my life. It was…everything.”

“And yet you walked away. When I was right here!”

“I couldn’t lose you.”

“You left so I couldn’t leave you,” Patrick says, it almost sounds like a question, but it’s not. Jonny can see the way it tilts back and forth in Patrick’s mind before righting itself, the realization settling and cementing.

He starts to shake his head, a reflex, then stops. He can’t deny it now that’s out there, even if it’s never something he thought or said to himself, even if the shame of it claws at him

Patrick’s not wrong.

“I’m sorry.” He says, because out of all the things he could say this is the truest.

He expects to see more anger, but the devastation on Patrick’s ever-expressive face is ebbing away into something more understanding than Jonny deserves.

“You were supposed to be there before everyone, above everyone. It was supposed to be you and me. It was always you and me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He’ll say it a thousand times if he has to.

“Fuck you,” Patrick huffs, annoyed. “Did you think I was lying when I said I wanted to have a family with you? When I said we could get a fucking surrogate??”

“No. It wasn’t about lying. Not to me anyway.”

Patrick’s eyes widen, confused, uncomprehending. “Then what? You thought I was lying to myself?”

Jonny shores himself up. “Patrick, you could barely look me in the eye in public some days, let alone touch me. Forget about holding my hand or having a family!”

“And clearly the way to convince me to do that was to run away,” he bites back.

Jonny shakes his head. “I didn’t think I could convince you. That’s why I left. C’mon, you know we’d been over it and over it and the argument was always the same: you wanted to wait and I didn’t, but I did for you.”

“So it’s all my fault now?” Patrick asks. He’s getting worked up again, agitated at the way Jonny’s wording things.

He doesn’t want to fight again, he’s so tired of the fighting, the angry, broken looks and, the cutting words and distance.

“No,” he sighs, head bowed. “I shouldn’t have left. I hurt you and I fucked myself over and made a huge fucking mess of everything. But it made sense at the time. I thought…”

“What?”

“That you’d never stop hiding.”

There’s a long pause, filled with endless silence where Jonny can almost hear his own heartbeat for how quiet it is in the house, and in the air around them.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t left,” says Patrick softly. “But fuck you for doing it anyway. It almost destroyed me, Jonny.”

“Me too,” he says and watches Patrick shudder and deflate, curling back toward Jonny’s body.

He rests his forehead against Jonny’s shoulder, murmurs, “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

It flays him, that one little sentence. It’s not unwarranted, but it slices through him all the same.

“I understand,” he says. “But do you want to?”

“Yes,” Patrick whispers, lips moving over the fabric of his shirt.

Jonny can’t help it, that one little word, that one sliver of hope propels him forward, has him grabbing Patrick around his chest and hauling him up until he’s straddled over Jonny’s lap, until they’re both staring at each other eye to eye.

They’re a mess, the two of them, clothes in disarray, sleep deprived, and puffy-faced. Jonny’s never felt more alive as he stares at Patrick’s face, so precious and vital and beautiful as he cups his jaw in both hands.

“Then all I ask is that you give me the chance to make it up to you. Please,” he says, bending down to press their foreheads together.

His eyes are open so he sees the moment of Patrick’s sweet exhale, eyelids flittering shut in release and long lashes fanning his cheeks.

He’s beautiful, always has been. Jonny’s never known someone that can carve him apart and smooth out all of his edges the same way this man can. It’s not just the pieces that make up who Patrick is on the outside, it’s the sum of who he’s always been to Jonny - who he will always be.

There’s probably a better time and a place for Jonny to kiss the apple of Patrick’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, but maybe there’s not and he’s done with trying to do what he thinks is best for the both of them.

He waits a moment for Patrick to stop him, gives himself a second to catch a better angle and then he leans back in, this time capturing Patrick’s mouth. The kiss is soft, all lips and the barest hint of tongue. It’s sweet, like sipping from a cup, Jonny pushing infinitely closer with each touch.

A tongue slips out to flick over Patrick’s bottom lip and he whimpers, hands tightening in Jonny’s shirt.

They both still, breathing hotly against each other’s mouths.

This is the moment he’s going to pull away, Jonny thinks, for one terrifying, horrible instant.

And then Patrick’s hands are urgently cupping around his jaw, the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head.

“Don’t you dare fucking stop,” he says, thighs clamped around Jonny’s lap like he thinks Jonny might move him, like he thinks Jonny wants him anywhere but right fucking here, forever.

“I won’t. I’m not,” Jonny promises and dives back in, capturing Patrick’s mouth in a heated rush of a kiss.

There’s nothing gentle or delicate about the meeting of their bodies now. Patrick’s yanking on Jonny’s hair to get him closer as Jonny eats at Patrick’s slick, plush mouth, biting at his bottom lip before sucking in the heated flesh.

Patrick moans, hands moving from Jonny’s hair to his shoulders, circling his neck as Patrick tries to push closer, closer closer. His ass, covered in the thin layer of sweatpants and nothing else is grinding down over Jonny’s dick in a way that makes him quiver and groan.

It’s been so long since they last touched like this, since they’ve touched at all, it’s overwhelming. Familiar and new in a way he couldn’t have ever fathomed. He feels wild with it, crazy with the wanting, needing to have all of Patrick, every piece of him right this very second.

He can’t think and he can’t stop, never wants to let Patrick go.

He bites at the smooth column of his throat as he runs his hands over the muscles in Patrick’s back, his shoulder blades and down the length of his spine to the rounded curve of his ass. Patrick’s fucking his tongue into Jonny’s mouth like he never wants to breathe again, his dick a hard line riding the ridges of Jonny’s abs. It makes him throb painfully in his shorts.

“God, I want you so much,” he moans as he sees the wet spot beginning to bloom on Patrick’s sweats.

“Then have me,” Patrick growls, moving to rip his own t-shirt off.

Seeing so much bare, smooth skin has Jonny’s mouth watering. Patrick’s got a hint of a tan, but he’s still pale, his nipples a dusty rose and puckered up tight. Jonny can’t help but lean down to suck at one as he grabs two handfuls of Patrick’s ass and fucks his hips up for some momentary relief. It’s good, the way Patrick vibrates, the way his cock finds the crease of Patrick’s ass and fits itself inside like it belongs there. It’s good, but it’s not enough.

He lets go to resituate himself, angling for better leverage when Patrick startles above him.

“What? No! Don’t-don’t…”

His feet under him, Jonny tugs Patrick close, hands closing vice like over Patrick’s ass as he stands, lifting Patrick with him. He wobbles a little as he steps to the couch. Less because of Patrick’s weight and more from the dizzy, hungry need and sleep deprivation mixing inside him.

They make it to the couch in one piece, Jonny laying Patrick out and waiting for him to make space between the apex of his legs for Jonny to slot into. He does and Jonny falls forward with every slip of grace he owns, face tucking into the side of Patrick’s neck as he says, “I’m not. I’m not, baby. I’m here.”

“Then take your fucking shirt off.” Patrick demands, less distressed now that Jonny’s pressing him down into the couch and more impatiently exasperated.

Jonny doesn’t make him ask twice, hurriedly ripping off his shirt and leaning up to push down his shorts as Patrick shimmies free of his sweats. When their bodies meet again, it’s bare skin against skin, smooth and sleek but for the perfect, catching drag of their cocks.

“Touch me,” Patrick breathes, legs circling around Jonny’s hips and drawing him in just that little bit more.

It’s almost too much, all of the places Jonny wants to touch, all the spots he used to love putting his fingers or lips or tongue to and hasn’t for months - too many long months.

He sucks at Patrick’s neck first, from the sensitive muscle of his trapezius to his clavicle, tongue running along the fine bone over salty skin. Patrick hitches his hips up as he whines, searching for a place to rut his dick against. Jonny inches ever nearer, giving Patrick his abs to grind into as his dick finds traction lower, skimming over Patrick’s hole and perineum. With every pull of Jonny’s cockhead up and down the crease of Patrick’s ass, the trail of precome he leaves begins to slick the way easier, better.

“Fuck me,” Patrick gasps, shivering when Jonny’s dick pushes in at the pink, clutching pucker of his hole, wet and glistening.

Jonny has to squeeze his eyes shut and take a breath, balls tightening up with the need to come at what Patrick’s offering, what he wants so badly. He kisses Patrick deep, bruising their lips together and sucking on his tongue. They don’t have the necessary supplies for Jonny to fulfill Patrick’s request, but he can still give Patrick what he needs. He can make it good.

Coming up for air, he takes his middle and index finger into his mouth and lathers them until they’re dripping with spit. One long trail strings from his lips to his fingertips, but he bends his head down so that it falls over Patrick’s balls, sliding down to his crack. His fingers follow suit, making a wet, slippery trail to his hole as Jonny gathers up enough slick to ease the way of both fingers.

“Your hands, Jonny, fuck,” Patrick moans, eyelids fluttering as he tries to tilt his hips up.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Jonny says, pumping slowly at Patrick’s rim, waiting for that sweet moment it gives and lets him in. “I’m so hard for you, Peeks.”

“Do you really want me?” he asks, voice uneven, but gaze lazer focused and steady.

Jonny looks right at him, says, “I always want you.”

It’s as if those words shatter the last of Patrick’s resistance as he exhales a long, shuddery breath, Jonny’s fingers slipping all the way home. He pumps them in and out a few times to get a good rhythm going, seeking out Patrick’s prostate, but not pressing on it just yet. He grazes over it teasingly; enjoying the way Patrick screws his hips up trying to reach for that perfect pressure.

His own dick feels hard enough to break off and he uses his left hand to jack at it just enough to relieve the ache pooling in his balls. Patrick’s eyes keep closing even as he struggles to keep them open, to watch what Jonny’s doing to him. Their eyes lock as Jonny starts to thrust his fingers in with more purpose now, rubbing over Patrick’s prostate and milking the moans from him like he’s slowly, precisely turning up the volume.

Patrick fucks himself on Jonny’s fingers, one hand gripping at a couch cushion as the other moves over his belly and up to tweak his own nipple. Jonny reaches out to flick his thumb gently over the other, watching hotly as Patrick cries out and arches up. His flushed red dick spurting out more precome.

“W-why?” Patrick gasps.

“Why what?” Jonny says, hand speeding up. He can tell Patrick’s close now by the way he’s biting over his bottom lip, eyes closed like the pleasure is too good to keep them open.

“Why do you…why do you want me?” he asks, lost in the feel of it all, hips undulating erratically.

Jonny leans down to kiss over the soft skin of Patrick’s inner thigh, taking in the beautiful picture he makes, and all of the ways Jonny has never wanted anyone as much as him. “Because I love you,” he says, honest. “Because you’re mine.”

“Oh fuck,” Patrick cries and comes. He has one loose hand circled around his cock as string after string coats his stomach and chest, all the way up to his neck.

Jonny fucks him through it, mesmerized by the way Patrick’s dick jerks and his ass clenches around him until he starts to tremble from being oversensitive. He withdraws gently, hovering over Patrick hesitantly even as he enjoys the way Patrick’s all lax and sprawled elegantly in the afterglow of his orgasm.

“Come here,” Patrick beckons warmly. He’s smiling at the corner of his mouth, his hairline a little sweaty and his lips a decadent rosebud. He pulls Jonny down into the circle of his arms, wrapping around him sweetly.

Jonny lets Patrick take some of his weight, sinking down on him the way they both used to like, the way they both still like if Patrick’s purring hum is anything to go by. Patrick nudges Jonny’s jaw with his nose and so he tips his head back in compliance, giving Patrick access to suck at his neck as he starts to grind his neglected dick over Patrick’s hole. It’s slippery and hot and when Patrick tightens his legs around Jonny’s waist it makes for the most insanely amazing space to thrust his dick against.

An embarrassingly short amount of time is what it takes for him to come, Patrick all around him, under him, as he kisses gently at Jonny’s mouth and the sharp line of his jaw.

He’s not sure if he’s the one trembling or if it’s Patrick. Maybe it’s both of them, their warm breaths mixing in the space between their lips. He cups his palms around Patrick’s face, to keep him close, just a little bit closer.

“I don’t want to move,” he says, touching their cheeks together.

“Then don’t,” says Patrick.

There’s a vulnerable kind of confidence to Patrick’s words, how his eyes meet Jonny’s for an instant before flicking away, but the strong hands on his back never drift.

He lowers his legs from Jonny’s waist and shifts to the side, leaving room for Jonny  to fit between him and the back of the couch. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s cramped all the same. As they adjust themselves, Jonny’s head spins a bit. He’s both weightless and more grounded than he’s been in years. Patrick’s here with him, touching him, his whole life, here in his arms.

If there’s time enough to right all of his wrongs, he’ll never quit.

“Can we sleep?” Patrick asks, tangling their legs together. “I want to sleep.”

“Of course,” Jonny nods, even though Patrick’s eyes are already shut. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

It’s a promise, Jonny thinks - the first of many. It won’t be the last.

He sleeps without struggle.

*

The sun is low, not quite touching the horizon, but not far off when Jonny wakes. He’s alone on the couch, the space beside him still warm. His heart rate kicks up for a few beats before he hears the rustle of a pan being removed from a cupboard, then the opening and closing of a refrigerator door.

He’s stiff all over from having passed out on a couch too small for two grown men for hours, but doesn’t regret one single achy joint or muscle. Standing, he slips on his shorts then stretches as he makes his way to the kitchen, cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders.

Patrick’s at the stove, sautéing mushrooms for what looks to be, considering the other items on the counter, omelets.

Jonny doesn’t know if he’s allowed to still touch Patrick or if earlier was some kind of fevered accident. He does know if he waits too long worrying instead of doing he’ll go out of his mind and he’s really, really done with wanting and not having. So he steps up behind Patrick slow, measured, as he slips his arms loosely around Patrick’s waist, shuffling one foot between the two of his and nuzzles at the nape of Patrick’s neck.

“Morning,” he murmurs. “Or something.”

“Or something,” Patrick echoes.

There’s tension in Patrick’s stance, in the way he’s not letting himself lean into Jonny like he used to.

Jonny kisses the side of Patrick’s neck, gentle little pecks one right after another until he laughs and twirls around.

“Let me,” Jonny says, taking the spatula from Patrick’s hand. “You set the table.”

He smacks one last kiss on his neck, swatting at one round ass cheek to get Patrick out of the way so he can resume his rightful place.

“I can cook an omelet, ya know,” Patrick grouses.

Jonny half-watches him move to the cabinet with the plates as he lowers the heat on the mushrooms and steps over to begin slicing a tomato.

“Better than I can?”

Patrick sends him a dirty look.

“I’m just kidding,” he says, setting down the knife to throw his hands up in surrender.

Patrick sniffs indignantly at him. “I can.”

“I know,” Jonny says, taking in the length of Patrick’s body, his low slung sweatpants and no shirt, his slim waist and broad shoulders, the soft fluff of his curls and red-purple hickey on his pectoral. He can’t help but smile, just a bit and say, “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, trying and failing to fight the grin breaking across his face. “Less talking, more cooking, Toews.”

Patrick always was easy for Jonny making a fool of himself over him. It’s nice to know with as many things that have changed that that’s not one of them.

Jonny returns to his tomato after that, Patrick to his table setting and they prepare their meal in the quiet that’s settled between. It feels more relaxed now, even if it’s just for the moment.

The sky is beginning to darken as they gather at Patrick’s kitchen island, plates full of food, a pitcher of lemon water nearby, and their calves brushing together as they sit side by side.

“So now what?” Patrick asks, picking up his fork.

“Now we eat?” Jonny tries.

“I mean tomorrow, next week, once the season begins?” He clarifies, cutting into his omelet, but not taking a bite.

Jonny pours himself a glass of water. He downs it in one go and then takes a breath, pouring another. “I have a tentative plan.”

“Well let’s hear it, I’m all ears,” Patrick says. The fork in his right hand is still cutting at his omelet while the left is tapping at the edge of his plate.

Jonny bumps his knuckles against Patrick’s, rubs the backs of their fingers together until Patrick stills.

“I come back to Chicago and we buy a house and we get married.”

There’s a short beat.

“Anything else?” Patrick asks.

“And we play hockey,” Jonny amends.

Another beat.

“…that’s it? That’s your master plan?”

Jonny really hasn’t had time to think beyond the broader strokes of things. Not that there aren’t finer details involved here, but if Jonny can have Patrick and hockey and Chicago…well, then the rest can be sorted out later. The point is, if he has Patrick, there will be time for later, for all the plans and things that weren’t done, things they can now do.

“Yep,” he says.

Patrick stares at him for a long minute, eyes scrutinizing before he seems to find what it is he’s looking for. Then he scoops up a gigantic bite of omelet and shoves it in his mouth. “Okey dokey.”

“No objections? Aren’t you still pissed at me?”

“Oh, I’m incredibly fucking heated,” Patrick nods, shoving more egg into his mouth. “But if I have to drag your big, dumb, Canadian ass down that aisle handcuffed to me while we say our vows, I will, because we’re fuckin’ in it to win it from here on out, you got me?”

“I got you,” Jonny says, meeting the intensity of Patrick’s stare with his own. Their eyes stay locked long enough that Jonny can feel the gradual transition turn from something solemn to hungry, Patrick’s lids going heavy, his tongue licking at his buttery lips.

“Hurry up and finish,” he orders. “I want to go upstairs.”

Jonny’s not taken a single bite of his omelet and yet he manages to inhale it and another glass of lemon water in under two minutes.

“Finished,” he says, smacking his fork on the counter.

“C’mon,” Patrick says and stands. He gestures for Jonny to follow him as he leads the way from the kitchen to the stairwell and up to Patrick’s bedroom. Jonny knows this house as well as he knows his own home, but he follows quietly.

There’s a determination to Patrick’s stride, a resolution in the set of his shoulders by the way he steps to the foot of his bed and undresses himself first and then Jonny. It’s just a simple matter of pushing his pants down, but then he’s back in Jonny’s orbit, rising up on the balls of his feet to capture Jonny’s mouth in a brutal kiss. It’s rough, almost punishing in the way it grinds their lips together too much. This is…it’s not what Jonny wants, for it to hurt. They’ve had more than enough misery.

“Hey,” Jonny says, leaning back. “Hey. Whoa there.”

“What?” Patrick snaps, voice harsh, but expression painfully vulnerable.

“Let me take care of you,” he says, nuzzling theirs faces together. Their mouths brush in a gentler kiss, a softer touch. “Okay?”

Patrick’s eyes close on a swift nod and Jonny doesn’t waste time guiding him down onto the bed. They make-out for several long, luxurious minutes, Jonny running his hands over as much of Patrick as he can manage from his ass to his abs and up to his shoulders; into his mess of curls. Patrick’s got one leg thrown over Jonny’s hip, his hands slinking down the length of Jonny’s spine.

“Fuck me now?” Patrick says, more of a plea than anything else.

“I will,” Jonny whispers into his skin. “Anything you want.”

Yes, he thinks, yes, yes, yes. And he means it, puts the promise of that thought into the way he maps his tongue and fingers over Patrick’s body, with blissful awestruck tenderness.

He opens Patrick with his tongue first, licking him sloppy wet around his rim. His fingers come next, tugging his hole to each side so Jonny can admire the way Patrick clenches for him, begging to be filled by the clutch of his body and the sweet moans he makes. Jonny gives him his fingers and tongue and the very subtle drag of his teeth, just enough to have Patrick whimper and yank on Jonny’s hair.

“Jonathan,” he gasps, pulling at hair again to get the attention he wants.

“Yeah, baby?” Jonny asks, lifting his head.

Patrick’s beautifully flushed from his neck down to his chest, his lips shiny and red bitten. “Want you inside me,” he says.

It’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever heard. It’s not the first time Patrick’s said this to him and it won’t be the last if he can help it, but it still sparks a livewire within him every time, heat igniting and fanning throughout his whole body. He has to grab desperately at the base of his dick, scrape a nail over his balls to keep himself from blowing his load.

“Fuck,” he hisses, taking a beat to breathe and gather himself. “You can’t just say that shit when I’m not ready for it.”

Patrick huffs out a laugh. “Pretty sure I can. Pretty sure I will. Now hurry the fuck up please.”

Jonny could tease him more, just for that, but it’d be denying them both the thing they want the most, prolonging the separation of their bodies finally wrapped up in one another after all this time.

No more waiting.

He crawls up the bed, reaching into the nightstand for where Patrick’s always kept the lube. There are condoms in the drawer now. The box is mostly full, but it’s still open. Jonny swallows and retrieves one, holds it up for Patrick to see.

“Do we need this?” he asks, low.

Patrick blinks. “No. I mean, not for me. Do you…”

“No,” Jonny says, fast, zero hesitation.

A long exhale, and then a soft smile flitters over Patrick’s face. He takes the condom from Jonny’s hand, throwing it across the room before drawing him close like an octopus, arms and legs circling around Jonny.

“Then I want you bare.”

It’s Jonny’s turn to shiver as he crushes his mouth against Patrick’s. They kiss deeply, eagerly, while Jonny pops the cap on the lube to slick himself up, feeding some inside Patrick too. They kiss as Jonny lines himself up, rubbing the crown over Patrick’s shiny hole. And they kiss when he pushes in, slowly, patiently, until his balls are up against Patrick’s ass.

“Fucking hell,” Jonny groans. “You feel so good.”

Better than good, even, amazing. He’s hot, wet and tight around Jonny, clinging to him all over. He’s the best thing Jonny’s ever felt, the best he’ll ever have. A hand comes up to brush the sweaty hair from his forehead and Jonny focuses his hazy, sex drunk gaze on the gorgeous sight of Patrick beneath him.

Patrick’s looking at him almost like it’s the first time, like they’re back in that hallway after the 2015 Cup win. His blue eyes full with so much possibility, hope, want, love. It’s a rushing relief flowing through him, smoothing jagged edges like water over rocks.

“Missed you,” he says, brushing a thumb over Patrick’s damp cheek.

“Me too,” Patrick whispers. “All the time.”

Tilting his hips up, Patrick starts to fuck himself on Jonny’s cock. He’s not in the position to create much leverage, but that’s not the point. It’s an invitation; one Jonny intends to follow through on now. His thrusts start slow, building momentum, as Patrick’s gasps grow louder, higher. He takes Patrick’s drooling dick in his hands and strokes it twice, gathering all of the wetness at the slit to smear over the throbbing length of him. Patrick writhes, pushing his hand away.

“I’m good,” he whimpers. “Just, need this.”

“This?” Jonny asks, pumping right over Patrick’s prostate.

“Yessss,” Patrick whines, as he begins to writhe beneath Jonny.

“Love you, Peeks,” Jonny says.

“Oh my god,” Patrick sobs, clenching vice-like around Jonny as he comes.

He comes and comes, spilling between them as a litany of words fall from his lips. “Jonny, god, Jonathan, baby, fuck, I love you. I love you, Jon.”

It’s too much, Patrick’s confession, the sight of his body arching up off the bed, and the feel of him squeezing so perfectly around Jonny. He can’t help but follow, pouring his orgasm inside Patrick until it starts to leak in rivulets from his hole.

They’re both overly sweaty and sticky, and soon they’ll be tacky, but Jonny doesn’t care. He has to push his face to Patrick’s neck and breathe in the tangy air of him, to remind himself he’s real and Jonny’s here, in this moment. It’s not a dream.

For now it’s all that matters.

*

The morning is a blue-gray when Jonny wakes up. It’s early enough that the birds are doing their bird thing, chattering away and being generally annoying. Jonny knows even though he closes his eyes again that he won’t be able to fall back asleep. Instead he nuzzles into the pillow that smells like Patrick, looping one arm around said man’s chest to pull them flush.

He lasts another twenty minutes before the need to piss and drink a gallon of water has him sliding out of bed.

In the ensuite bathroom he notices Patrick’s remodeled shower, something he hopes to try out soon, and goes about taking care of his business. Finished, he heads downstairs to make some coffee. He makes a cup for himself and one for Patrick, returning to Patrick’s room to find the bed empty.

Setting the mugs down he checks around the room, discovering Patrick standing in the bathroom wearing only boxers, his phone buzzing nonstop beside the sink. Patrick’s staring at it, his gaze a little distant as he chews on his nails. He’s bitten his thumbnail down so far it’s angry bruised and bloody.

“Hey,” Jonny says, smiling crookedly.

“Hi,” Patrick says around the hand in his mouth.

Jonny steps up close to him. “You disappeared on me.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says distractedly.

“What’s going on?” Jonny takes hold of Patrick’s hand, easing it away from his mouth. He flips on the tap and runs Patrick’s thumb under it.

“Just thinking.”

“You mean overthinking?”

Patrick bites at his lip. “My phone won’t stop ringing. I’m gonna have to give a million interviews. And talk about this over and over again. And my mom won’t come near me. What if - what am I gonna do, Jonny?”

Jonny opens the medicine cabinet to grab a band-aid. He sets about working it around Patrick’s abused thumb, kissing it softly when it’s all bandaged. “You’re going to do what you always do and get through this. We’ll get through this together.”

“Together,” Patrick echoes.

“Yes. Together,” Jonny nods, turning Patrick’s hand over to kiss his palm.

“Promise?” asks Patrick.

His eyes are a striking shade of silver gray in the warm light of the bathroom, his lashes long and shadowed across his cheek. He doesn’t look afraid, but he’s more anxious than Jonny can remember seeing him in years.

He presses his lips to the inside of Patrick’s wrist. “I swear it.”

“Fuck,” Patrick says around a watery smile.

“What?”

“I’m just so happy you’re here.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me. Like for-ev-er,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. “Now let’s take a shower.

Patrick laughs then turns his phone off.

*

“I have a meeting with Stan on Tuesday,” Jonny tells Patrick the next day.

Patrick stops chewing his chicken curry for a moment. “About?”

“Coming back.”

“Maybe Stan doesn’t want you anymore,” Patrick says, tearing off some naan to pop in his mouth.

Jonny tilts his head up. “Stan always wants me.”

“He didn’t even miss you, to be honest.”

“Lies. He wants me back desperately. I know it.”

Patrick’s grin dissolves into a somber look. “We can’t afford you, Jon.”

“I’ll make it work.”

“But what if-“

“I’ll make it work, Kaner. I will,” he promises.

*

“Will you come with me tomorrow?” He asks later, his mouth full of toothpaste and his eyes on Patrick as he sits on the bed flipping channels.

Patrick mutes the television. “To Chicago?”

Jonny nods.

“Yeah. Yes.” He says with his open smile, his calm hands, his strong, broad shoulders and bare chest, the low slung sweatpants that drive Jonny wild.

Jonny rinses his mouth quickly, stepping into the bedroom

It’s easy to tackle Patrick to the bed and kiss him breathless.

“Thank you,” he says, grin so wide it hurts.

Patrick wrestles with him until he’s on top, a triumphant glow radiating off every inch of him.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, biting playfully at Jonny’s jaw. “I always wanted to be there. Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.”

*

They’re at Niagara International Airport, boarding a flight to Chicago on Monday afternoon, when Jonny gets a text.

**From Veebee 2:32pm:**

_Dude just heard about Kane. Where r u?!_

_In Buffalo_ , Jonny responds.

The line in front of him begins moving again and Jonny follows Patrick to their seats, taking the aisle so that Patrick can have the window. He’s enjoying the way Patrick’s hand is resting openly on his thigh when his phone buzzes multiple times again in quick succession.

“Teammate, er, friend, from Winnipeg,” Jonny clarifies when Patrick shoots him a curious look.

**From Veebee 2:46pm:**

_Buffalo, NY? Why?_

_Oh wait_

_OH SHIT_

_Are u with him?_

_Yes_ , Jonny types back and snorts at Veebee’s instant response.

**From Veebee 2:48pm:**

_Did you finally tap that ass??_

_Stop yourself_ , he replies. And just to show he’s serious sends _:/_ after.

There’s more buzzing.

**From Veebee 2:51pm:**

_You did._ _Congrats, man!_ _That’s gross. But good for you!!!_

There’s a collection of emojis that follow, a fist, a tongue, a dog, a smiley face with sunglasses, and an eggplant. Jonny’s not exactly sure what any of that is supposed to mean, but he thinks he gets the gist of it.

Patrick leans against his shoulder as the plane takes off, his arm solid and warm against Jonny. It settles him like nothing else can. This is home.


	9. Epilogue

Sitting and waiting outside of Stan’s office is strange. It’s even weirder when Jonny’s invited inside, the air thick with a certain kind of tension while they go through the negotiations. Patrick wasn’t joking about them not having the money to afford him, but that’s irrelevant now. He knew the moment he decided to come back that he’d probably have to take less, and he will, he does.

Stan has the best poker face after years of managing this team, but he has no reason to be stoic in this instance, even if Jonny understands why he is. Still, when Jonny signs his new contract, everything that’s felt strained, from the wrinkles around Stan’s mouth to the blood pumping fast beneath his own skin, finally relaxes.

As they stand, he clasps Jonny on the shoulder, squeezes tight. It reminds him of his dad, and in a way, Stan’s been one kind of father figure or another to him and Patrick since they were eighteen. So maybe it’s only right that he’s the first one to welcome Jonny’s return.

“Glad to have you back, son.”

“Glad to be back,” Jonny says, voice stupidly caught in his throat.

On his way out of the United Center with Brisson, Jonny’s stopped by too many people to count, some saying hello or chatting for a few minutes, each of them happier to see him than he would’ve ever honestly imagined. It makes this all the more evident.

It’s happening. It’s real.

Back at Patrick’s apartment, Jonny sets down the lunch he picked up for them while he was out, and goes in search of the man himself.

He’s eager to tell Patrick the news, knows Patrick’s anxious to hear it. More than anything, Jonny’s ready to touch him, be near him again, because it’s maybe only been a few hours since they’ve seen each other last, but it’s enough. It’s too much.

When he finds him, he can’t help but smile and stare from the doorway of the living room. Patrick’s spread out on the couch, baseball on the television as he plays some game on his phone, ignoring Bryant hitting a homer. Jonny steps quietly into the room, eyes lingering up and down Patrick’s frame. He’s wearing a pair of dark red jersey shorts and a green T-shirt, a University of North Dakota T-shirt.

“You kept it,” Jonny says, walking further into the room.

Patrick jerks in surprise, looking around like he’s trying to figure out what Jonny means when he realizes Jonny’s staring at his chest. He rolls his eyes fondly. “Of course I kept it, idiot.”

Jonny beams. He moves to the couch, straddling Patrick’s lap and leaning down into his personal space.

“Quit it,” Patrick says, reaching up to toy with Jonny’s tie.

“Quit what?” Jonny asks innocently.

“Being so smug.”

He smirks. He can’t help it. “You look like a Christmas present,” he replies, one hand fitting over Patrick’s ribcage. The shirt and skin beneath are warm and his to touch, to hold, to have. He may never stop feeling smug for the rest of his life.

“That’s because I’m the greatest gift you’re ever gonna get,” Patrick states, tongue flicking out between his teeth.

Jonny snorts.

“Am I wrong?”

“Not at all.”

Patrick nods, satisfied with that response and tugs on Jonny’s tie a little. “So tell me, how’d it go?”

“The meeting? Well, you’re talking to the newest member of the Chicago Blackhawks, number nineteen, if that’s what you mean.”

Patrick flicks him on the forehead, hard. “Good,” he says, a long breath rushing out amidst Jonny’s groan. “Stay put this time.”

Jonny leans down, stretching his body out so he’s covering Patrick as much as he can without smothering him, their bodies pressed close. He murmurs, “You got it, Peeks.”

Patrick can’t seem to fight the grin crackling to life like lightning over his face. He tugs the knot of Jonny’s tie until their lips brush. “Now that that’s settled, kiss me.”

Jonny does.

*

In October, during opening ceremonies for their first game of the season, the United Center welcomes Jonny home.

He knows it’s coming. During training camp, a few weeks before pre-season, he’s informed by Stan and the Hawks media that they’re going to include him specifically on opening night.

“It’s really not necessary,” Jonny tells them several times.

“Of course it is,” they say. “Our captain’s back.”

Except Jonny’s not the captain now.

Seabs offers before the organization, and it’s tempting, honestly, the notion of slotting right back in as first line center and captain like nothing has changed. It would be more than he has a right to, more than he could ever ask for. The truth is he hasn’t earned it. Not his spot in the line up, or the ranking, and he owes it not just to himself, but to the fans and his teammates to win back their faith in him. Therefore he respectfully declines, tells Seabs that when he feels Jonny is ready to really wear the C again, he can hand it over. Until then Jonny will play the game the only way he knows how, with everything he’s got.

It doesn’t stop people from referring to him as Captain though, or from the Hawks deciding to acknowledge his return in style. So on opening night, after the team introductions are made and the tribute video is shown, with a mic in his hand, Patrick nearby, and an invisible fist inside his stomach, Jonny speaks.

“Thank you,” he says. Words he spent days memorizing a hundred times over so he wouldn’t forget, rewriting and altering it to make it just that little bit better. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be back here. Thank you to the Chicago Blackhawks organization for everything they’ve done for me. Thank you to my teammates for believing in me. And thank you to the best fans in sports, for without you, none of this would be possible. Now let’s win some hockey!”

The cheers fill the rafters, camera flashes going off, and people banging against the glass. A trainer takes the mic from him, hands it off to one of their tech guys as Patrick bumps his fist.

There are kids with glittery signs with his name on them and tiny children excitedly waving to get his attention. Patrick nudges him into noticing an entire row of people near the ice wearing a collection of number nineteen jerseys. The reception is so much more than he deserves.

“And you were worried,” Patrick grins flirty and flashy, before skating away.

He is.

He was. But maybe he doesn’t have to be, not anymore.

*

In March they buy a house. It’s a two-story brownstone in Lincoln Park with more space than they’ll ever realistically need. It’s not the first house they see, or the last, but one they come back to a few weeks after the initial walkthrough.

They don’t need a place with six bedrooms and a basement and a four-car garage. It has a backyard too, with a hammock, a porch, and a deck. It’s huge and kind of ridiculous and sort of perfect.

In the past, when Jonny used to think about the kind of house he and Patrick would have, it was always something modern, fashionable, new. Maybe even something eco-friendly made with natural materials. Not this one-hundred-year-old refurbished house with rich oak wood floors and bay windows large enough to let light in from every corner and crevice. Each room is painted in earthy greens, blues, and whites, accented beautifully by the more antique finishes. It feels warm, somehow, calming, like a fuzzy blanket or the sound of ruffling leaves. It’s a home that feels every stitch of them.

“A house to grow into,” Patrick says, eyes lit up in that way that Jonny knows means he’s already attached.

They sign the paperwork soon after and move in over a matter of weeks, living out of boxes for the rest of the season.

Erica threatens to come help them unpack herself if they don’t hire a decorator by the end of May, so Patrick does and they have the house mostly whipped into shape come postseason.

The first thing they do after recuperating from the playoffs is fuck in every room and on every flat surface imaginable, from the basement with their exercise machines, to the shower in the coach house above the garage. It’s insanely hot and sexy, the messiest kind of fun. They keep a running tally of all the places Jonny’s banged a knee or Patrick’s hit an elbow, or the interesting places carpet burns can pop up from going at it on their walk in closet floor.

Jonny sort of feels bad for all the people who sit on the couch in their entertainment room during the housewarming party, unaware of how they defiled it earlier just that afternoon. He catches Patrick staring at him across the room, looking at the couch, his expression pleased and a little bashful. They make their way to each other in the middle of the crowd, a drink in one hand and a friend to either side. Patrick nudges his shoulder into Jonny’s armpit, a gentle shove, but it’s speaking without words, asking for touch. He slips his arm around Patrick’s waist, tugs him into his side in front of Crow and Hammer and everyone.

Seabs rolls his eyes and keeps right on talking shit about Jonny’s tasteless vegan chip dip.

It’s easy in a way few things have been for a long time.

Jonny takes the moment and files it away inside his chest, a photograph imprinted on his very cells. 

*

Some days aren’t as easy.

They still fight and bicker, in the way they have since they were rookies. There’s an edge to it now that wasn’t there before Jonny left. It’s not cutting and gaping in the way it had been during those brutal months before the break up. The cracks now paved over with endless endearments and embraces and the steady ticking of time.

There is, however, a two-year gap they can’t ignore. Patrick’s quiet, at first, and then he isn’t, lets himself be angry, anxious, and snarky. Jonny gives it back to him, meets him barb for prickly barb. It’s not always kind or soothing, but that’s not the point. They’re talking, sometimes yelling, and they’re not holding anything back.

Afterwards they might walk away to cool off, but inevitably, as always, they end up back in each other’s embrace.

“Don’t let go,” Patrick will say, burrowing his face against Jonny’s neck.

His hair smells like fresh rain and pomegranates. Jonny will nose at his curls and mutters “Won’t. Ever.”

They’re moving on, a work in progress.

*

For the fourth of July, they take Jonny’s new boat out on Lake Michigan. Navy Pier is crowded, overly noisy, and full of drunk morons fucking around hours before it’s even dark. So Jonny guides them further out, to a more secluded area, where they can drink, eat, and listen to Patrick’s intensely patriotic playlist in peace.

It feels nice once the sun goes down, the breeze cool and constant over the water. Jonny’s still sweaty in his neon tank top and board shorts, but Patrick is predictably chilly, half wrapped up in a gigantic striped beach towel and looking for socks in one of the bags they brought, when the fireworks begin.

“Kaner, come here.”

He lifts his bleached blond head from the bag to look back at Jonny. “One second.”

“Hurry up.”

“Why?”

“Just,” Jonny waves him over impatiently. “Just come here, please. I need to ask you something.”

Patrick sighs teasingly and shuffles over in his newly sock covered feet. He takes a seat beside Jonny at the bow of the boat, curling into his side like it was made exactly for him.

He smiles softly, eyes reflecting the purple and gold sparkles in the night sky. His cheeks lightly blushed from the sun. “Is the question: will I marry you? Because if so, then yes.”

Wait. What?

Jonny stares at him, flustered. “I…”

Patrick’s expression brightens, glowing. “You?”

“You knew?” Jonny splutters.

“Of course. You aren’t subtle, bud.”

Jonny frowns.

“What’s that face for?” Patrick laughs.

“You stole my thunder!” Jonny huffs.

He’s got a small leather box with Patrick’s platinum band in his pocket, his clammy palms are rubbing over his thighs. All of this worrying, and planning, and Patrick knew.

Well, shit.

Patrick grabs him by the chin and pulls him close, bites gently at his jaw. “Hey, stop pouting. What about the part where I said, yes? Doesn’t that make up for it?”

“I guess.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick cackles, too amused for his own good. “Okay. Ask me again.”

Jonny’s brow wrinkles. “What?”

Patrick bullies him off the seat and onto one knee in front of him, situating them both until he’s pleased. Then he says, “Let’s go. I’m ready. Ask me again.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you knew. I can’t believe we’re arguing right now.”

“Bickering.”

“Same difference.”

“Is it?”

“Arghhhhh,” Jonny groans, despairing of this ridiculous man in front of him and his ruined plans.

Patrick leans forward to kiss his neck quick and sweet, legs spread wide as he sits half on the seat and half on Jonny’s lap. But Jonny wants that mouth slick and wet against his own so he drags him back in. Patrick tastes like beer and salt, his breath hot mingled with Jonny’s, and all the better for it. They’re both hard once they finally separate, chests heaving and horny as hell.

Jonny’s going to have to propose with a goddamn erection and it’s all Patrick’s fault.

“You’re the worst,” he groans, eyes still zeroed in on Patrick’s plush pink mouth and the tongue swiping out over his bottom lip.

Patrick beams. “I know.”

“And you’re the love of my life,” Jonny says, earnest.

“I know,” Patrick purrs, smile achingly tender.

“Marry me?”

Caged inside him, his heart’s pounding jackrabbit style, nerves frayed after all this build up.

Patrick doesn’t make him wait any longer, sliding into Jonny’s lap and wrapping his arms around him effortlessly. “Anytime, anywhere, baby,” he says, and seals their mouths together.

They kiss slowly, deeply this time, letting themselves get lost as the sky glitters green above them.

Jonny works the box from his pocket, hard-on a distraction as Patrick wiggles around on top of him, sucking at his neck, and generally being a gorgeous nuisance.

“Except maybe Canada,” he says, when Jonny slips the band onto his left ring finger.

“Liar. You’d marry me there too.”

Patrick sighs. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

*

They have the wedding that following summer at the Garfield Park Conservatory, in August. It’s a gorgeous venue, filled with greenery from floor to ceiling with sunlight cascading over the silk drapery and the extravagant floral arrangements. The day is a bit of a clusterfuck in the way that all weddings are. Jonny loses the blue silk tie that goes with his tux, the one that matches Patrick’s perfectly. His mom and Jackie go on a scavenger hunt for it while he deals with a photographer emergency and Patrick’s on the phone making sure his great aunt can figure out how to use an Uber.

Everything is hectic and there’s too many people asking him too many questions and he hasn’t even put on his damn pants yet.

But none of it seems to really matter during the ceremony, Patrick standing across from, his shining eyes accented so beautifully from the tie and smiling so devastatingly beautiful up at Jonny that he feels weak in the knees.

He can’t help but wipe away the wetness from Patrick’s cheeks as he recites his vows or even stubbornly blink away the dust in his own eyes. They’re a total, utter wreck, the two of them. Completely fucked and so gone for each other it’s staggering.

At times it feels like everyone else in the room is gone, and it’s just them, the width between them dissolving in tiny fractions.

He kisses Patrick every chance he gets. At their table before dinner is served, when they cut the cake, when their best men give their speeches, and while they dance, some horrid One Direction song Patrick picked out beforehand playing in front of all of their friends and family.

Or well, most anyway.

Donna doesn’t show. And even though Patrick tells Jonny he expected it, seeing Tiki sitting alone during the ceremony is brutal. It’s even more crushing to see the light dim in Patrick’s eyes when only his sisters show up for the reception.

His mom takes Patrick’s hand for the mother and son dance, fussing over his shirt and tie and that errant curl that always wants to fly away. Jonny watches them from the sidelines, bombs exploding inside every fragment of him. Patrick’s blinking rapidly, head tucked down as Andrée whispers something in his ear. They laugh together, joyful despite flushed tear tracks on their faces. Jonny aches to hold him, to kiss him again and again. When the song ends, he’s already moving toward them, but Veebee breaks through, grin mischievous and eyes shark like. He swoops in and steals Jonny’s mom away, delivering her to his dad in a debonair twirl before skipping over to the DJ.

In slow dawning horror Jonny watches as Patrick, Veebee, David, a very drunk Seabs, a giggling Sharpy and the rest of the groomsmen line up on the dancefloor as _Sexy and I Know It_ begins to blast from the speakers. It’s possibly the most amazingly embarrassing moment of Jonny’s life, especially when the entire group of them start hip thrusting and wiggling around. Further worsened by Patrick pointing directly to Jonny and mouthing the words at him until Jonny’s cheeks are flaming hot and his dick is shamefully twitching in his pants.

Fucking Veebee. Jonny regrets ever introducing him and Patrick. It’s like the second they struck up a conversation they made some sort of silent pact to annoy the shit out of him at every turn. They spent the week coming into the wedding taking over the TV in the den and watching _American Ninja Warrior_ marathons while eating pizza Jonny can’t have. When they weren’t together, they were texting each other memes of Jonny’s on-ice faces, entire emoji conversations that made no discernible sense, and too many fantasy football draft picks.

There’s a loud whistle from the crowd as the group of them begin removing their shirts. A camera flash goes off behind him and Jonny prays that the photo doesn’t end up somewhere on the internet, although that’s probably hoping for too much.

Patrick’s winking at him now, tilting his head in a come hither motion that has Jonny saying, “No. Definitely not.”

“Come on, you know you want to,” Patrick leers, shimmying up to him and taking hold of his waist.

“Do I?” he laughs.

“Obviously,” Patrick answers, grinding into him just enough to ride the line of appropriate and filthy. “You vowed to honor and obey, remember?”

There’s little beads of sweat along Patrick’s hairline from all his strutting, his skin a smooth light gold in the warm lights of the conservatory. Jonny has the strongest urge to the lick a wet stripe up his throat and suck a proprietary bruise over the pristine column of his neck.

Instead he brushes his lips over Patrick’s ear and murmurs, “I want to fuck you through the floor.”

Patrick chokes on a moan, smiling. “Keep it in your pants, stud. Plenty of time for that for later.”

Later…

Later, after they thank everyone for coming, they’ll pick up some tacos from Chipotle because they didn’t get to eat more than a few bites during the reception, then they’ll head to their hotel penthouse. They’ll stuff their faces sitting on the bed in their underwear, half watching some UFC fight and stealing glances of each other’s ring fingers. Later they’ll shower together, groping gently at one another’s bodies while the water sprays down around them. Later they’ll pass out spooning, naked and not having made it past second base. But that’s not the point. They’ll have as many tomorrows as they’ll need. All of them if they want.

So Jonny kisses him now, relieved to see the joy radiating from Patrick’s face and the demanding, carefree way he maneuvers them around the dancefloor.

*

That Thanksgiving, Sharpy, his family, Burish, and several of the retired 2010 cup crew come to Chicago for a few days to celebrate. Patrick can’t go home and Jonny doesn’t want to make the holidays any harder on him by inviting his own parents, so they fill their house with friends and teammates. Their second family.

Jess shows up at the last minute too, with her sixteenth month old son, Micah, and dark bags under her eyes. Jonny doesn’t ask because she doesn’t seem in the mood to talk, and he figures if that’s anyone’s place it’s Patrick’s, but he does set her up in their biggest guest room. He runs out that morning in search of the best crib he can find, even though she assures him the baby can sleep with her in the bed. When he returns hours later his house is full of hockey players and the smell of pumpkin pie.

It’s nice having everyone around, if a bit hectic. Micah, Sadie, and Maddie are enough of a distraction that Patrick seems more harried finding activities to keep them all busy than crushed because of what he’s missing. Jonny’s glad for it, for all of them, filling up the empty space of their home with sounds of laughter and affection. He thinks he’ll miss it when it’s gone.

On Thanksgiving evening, they have dinner catered and drink and talk until late into the night. Some of the guys end up downstairs in the rec room, playing pool and poker, while the rest of them slip outside to sit on the deck. It’s warmer this year than the previous ones, no snow yet and the air less chilly. Still, they sit around wrapped in blankets, string lights twinkling and space heaters humming softly.

Sharpy’s recounting some story or other from back during the early years, a prank he and Bur pulled on Patrick, but Patrick isn’t listening. He’s staring at Jess a few feet away, rocking a sleeping Micah in her arms, her face resting lightly against the top of his head.

Jonny cups a hand around Patrick’s knee, presses their shoulders together. “What’s going on up there?” he asks quietly.

“Up where?”

“Right there,” Jonny says, nudging Patrick’s temple with his forehead.

“Oh,” Patrick laughs. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“Having kids,” he murmurs, chewing on his lip.

Jonny’s heart stops. He catches Patrick’s chin in the curve of his hand and tilts his face up. “Are you serious?”

“Well duh,” he says, expression a blazing, brilliant rush.

Too shocked to speak, he slams his mouth against Patrick’s and kisses the air from his lungs, the joy from his tongue. He can hardly even form a thought for how incredibly, intensely ecstatic he feels.

They don’t stop kissing even when Sharpy throws a hat at them and howls, “Get a room!”

*

There’s a list on the refrigerator that they add to and check things off of for the next several months. Paperwork that needs filling out and agencies they set up meetings with. Adoption or surrogacy. Neither of them are well-educated on the process or how it works.

It’s complicated, they figure that out pretty early on. And it takes time, even with money and connections. It’s also frustrating. Now that Jonny knows what he wants, knows what Patrick wants, it’s like he can hardly stand still long enough for it to happen. Being patient, working hard, persevering…these are things he’s perfected over the years, the things he’s best at. But he can’t will a child into existence.

“What if I did it?” Erica asks Patrick during one of their weekly Skype calls. Patrick’s been venting for the last twenty minutes about their baby woes at her for maybe the 500th time when she cuts in.

“What if you did what?” he says.

“What if I had your kid, dummy?”

Jonny stubs his toe he rushes from the kitchen to the dining room so quickly.

“Pretty sure that’s against the law,” Patrick jokes, his laugh shaky and his hands beginning to fidget.

Erica rolls her eyes. “That’s why we’d use Jonny’s little swimmers and my oven, obviously.”

“Who says my anything is little?” Jonny interrupts. He’s standing behind Patrick now, arms looped around Patrick’s chest and crouched down so Erica can see him.

She’s giving him the most unimpressed face ever even as she cracks a grin. “Anyway! So what do you think?”

“Are you–are you sure? It could be risky.” Patrick says, and it’s true, Erica’s older now and it’s not like they’re asking her to bake them some fucking muffins. This is a human being, one that’ll be part Kane and Toews, but part Erica too.

“I talked it over with Jason and we both decided this is something we want to do for you. It’s something I want to do for you. You’ve given all of us so much, Patty. Let me give you something back. Okay?”

Patrick runs a trembling hand over his face. “ _Holy shit_ ,” he gasps. “Holy shit, Jonny, we’re gonna have a baby.”

He pulls Jonny down into the tightest hug, his grip so strong it’s hard to breathe, but fuck it. Who needs air?

Jonny anchors Patrick to him with his right arm while reaching out with his left to touch the computer screen. “Thank you,” he tells Erica, voice scratchy raw. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

*

For Jonny’s birthday, Patrick takes him out for the best steak dinner money in Nashville can buy. Unfortunately it’s not Chicago, but they’re in the middle of a good playoff run so Jonny can’t complain too much.

The food is decent, the expert blow job Patrick gives him in their hotel room later on even better. After the second round, Patrick lets him watch HGTV, lying naked and fucked out on his chest, and doesn’t bitch at all about how boring Jonny’s old ass is or the cool temperature of the room.

Before they fall asleep, he gives Jonny two gifts. The first is a black platinum Rolex Jonny’s had his eye on and the next is an unmarked box with a shirt inside. A tiny t-shirt to be exact. It’s black and plain on the back and when Jonny flips it over, in gold lettering it says, ‘Happy Birthday, Daddy!’.

Jonny stares at it so long everything goes blurry bright around him. If it’s true…if it’s real…he almost can’t believe it.

“She’s pregnant?” he asks, hesitantly.

Patrick’s whole face is so open and soft, his smile so sweetly genuine when he says, “She is.”

It’s almost too much, the knowledge that it’s happening finally, that everything he’s wanted for years is now falling into place. He can’t help but take the tiny t-shirt in his hands, this incredibly small symbol of the way his life is going to change and hold it up to his face to breathe it all in.

Patrick runs a hand along his bicep and up to his neck, thumbing over his pulse point. “Jon? You okay?”

“Yes,” he mumbles into the fabric.

Looping his fingers around Jonny’s wrists, Patrick draws them away. “Are you crying?”

“Fuck yes, I’m fucking crying! We’re having a fucking baby! Oh my fucking god, come here!”

He doesn’t give Patrick a chance to respond before he’s pressing Patrick down into the bed and smothering him in love.

The only thing better, he thinks distantly, the only that could make this all better would be if they can go on to win the Cup.

*

They do win the Cup. It’s some kind of miracle, to be honest. Jonny and Patrick are still good, but they aren’t twenty-one anymore and the competition this year was stiff. Stan, as always, is a wizard and the team’s younger players skating themselves ragged is what helps clinch them the game seven win in double overtime.

It’s as surreal this time as all the times before, except now he can grab Patrick after his turn with the Cup and hold him close as long as he wants, press his lips to the crinkles around Patrick’s eyes, not let go.

It all seems a little too perfect to be true.

If only life were this perfect all the time. If it were…

If it were then maybe Jonny’s dad wouldn’t have had a stroke a week before Christmas. If it were then Jessica wouldn’t have to go through an ugly divorce because her husband got caught cheating on her. If life were perfect Jonny wouldn’t need shoulder surgery, David wouldn’t lose his job, and Patrick’s mom would learn to accept him. If life were perfect, but it isn’t, and sometimes the good days make up for the bad ones, and other times they don’t.

They do what they can, keep moving on.

*

The first day of December, later that year, their daughter is born. Jonny and Patrick miss a week’s allotment of games to fly out to Buffalo and be there for the birth. It’s the most games either of them have missed without being injured, and it’s worth every minute.

When they arrive Erica’s in the seventh hour of her labor and the entire Kane clan is present, Donna included. Patrick sends his mother a wary glance, but doesn’t let her presence stop him from going to Erica’s side and staying with her for the next nine hours.

It’s a long labor, sixteen hours in total, and thankfully relatively uncomplicated. Erica’s body is slow to dilate, causing the entire process to wear on her and impede progress. Patrick and Jason never leave, camped out on each side of her bed and getting her whatever she wants. Jonny takes care of the rest, fetching the doctor or nurse when necessary, grabbing food for everyone when needed and trying to be the calm center of the storm.

At 8:59 the following morning, Elizabeth Joy finally arrives. She’s a tiny six pound, fourteen ounce crying ball, all peachy skinned with tufts of blonde hair and dark, dark eyes. She’s the second most beautiful thing Jonny’s ever seen.

“Can I hold her?” Patrick asks after she’s been cleaned up, checked over, and swaddled in a soft white blanket.

If he’s directing the question at the nurse or Erica, Jonny isn’t sure. He looks as overwhelmed at the moment as Jonny feels. They’re parents. Holy fuck, they’re dads.

“Maybe Erica should hold her first,” Donna says, as the nurse is walking over toward Patrick.

Patrick looks stricken by her comment, at the implication of it. Jonny’s seconds from speaking up, something sharp and barbed at the tip of his tongue when Erica glares fire at her mom.

“No,” she states, her tone surprisingly strong for the experience she’s just endured. “Patty, she’s your girl, you take her. I need some juice and a long nap.”

Jackie pops up out of her seat, presumably to go fetch said juice while the nurse hands their daughter to Patrick.

“Thank you,” he says to Erica, his smile tearful.

She reaches out to run a hand over his head. “Of course.”

The room is still a flurry of activity with so many people around, but when Patrick looks up and catches his attention, time seems to slow and still, all of it zeroing down to just the three of them.

“Jonny c’mere,” Patrick beckons and Jonny does, grabbing an empty chair and pulling it up next to his husband and his daughter.

His husband and his daughter. He almost can’t believe his life.

“I’m here,” he croaks out, wrapping his arm around Patrick to bring him, them, in as close as possible.

Patrick’s caressing her rosy cheek with the tip of one of his fingers, tracing the outline of her delicate features from her heart shaped chin to her elvin nose. “She’s so perfect. Every little thing about her.”

“Everything,” Jonny echoes, in awe.

“Hi, Lizzy,” Patrick whispers sweetly. “Hey there, baby girl. It’s nice to meet you.”

They take turns holding her for the rest of the night, learning to feed her and change her with the help of Patrick’s family. Donna is mostly quiet, surveying, and helping to take care of Erica when she can.

Jonny doesn’t miss the way Patrick’s gaze will follow her around the room for brief moments at a time, discouraged when his mom doesn’t come closer.

He’s had about all he can handle from her by the afternoon and so he follows her when she goes out to grab some coffee.

They walk in silence to the vending machines, Donna filling up a paper cup with the hospital sludge and small containers of half and half. Jonny buys two waters and a pack of gum sugarless gum, blinks the exhaustion from his eyes.

The hall is relatively quiet, the sounds of the hospital mostly white noise to Jonny at this point.

“Donna, don’t ruin this day for him. Please.”

“I don’t want to,” she says, chastened.

“Good,” Jonny shoots back, surprised at her response, but skeptical.

Her head is bent down, her mouth tight lipped as she begins to walk away.

“He loves you,” Jonny blurts out before she gets too far. “And he just wants you to love him back. That’s all. It doesn’t have to be this difficult.”

“I’m not so sure,” she says, but it’s more of a question than a declaration. Like she’s looking to Jonny for some kind of assurance that’s it’s not too late.

“I am,” he says, confident. “Just give us a chance.”

It’s as if watching a tight wire get sliced in two with the way the tension her shoulders relax, the strain in her face dissipate. “Okay,” she nods.

Jonny’s not entirely convinced she’ll follow through, but over the next several weeks and then months, her efforts to bridge the divide between her and Patrick grow. It’s not easy or always comfortable at times, but she’s trying, making phone calls and showing up for holidays. He and Patrick both know the catalyst for this is Lizzy, and not them, but Patrick doesn’t seem to hold any resentment for Donna about it. His heart as big and forgiving and loving as Jonny’s forever known it to be.

It’s something he sees reflected in their daughter everyday, something he’s more thankful for than he can ever imagine trying to put into words.

*

Lizzy is many things Jonny wasn’t expecting. Of course she’s beautiful and bright and determined; she’s got Jonny’s and Patrick’s genes, so that was a given. She’s also stubborn as fuck, fiercely funny, protective, creative, tenacious and affectionate.

In the mornings, however, she’s an expert escape artist.

He can hear her before he can feel her start to climb her way onto their bed. It starts with the little bump that comes from her foisting herself over the side of the crib and plopping onto the carpeted floor of her room. Then it’s the fssh-fssh-fssh of her tiny toddler feet shuffling down the hall.

There’s an ottoman at the end of their bed that she uses as a way to hike herself up, then the ruffling of the comforter before she’s crawling on top of them both.

“Daddy, ‘toons please,” she says.

Patrick groans. “Lizzy, sleep please.”

“No, daddy,” she huffs. “‘Toons. Want the ‘toons.”

There’s an elbow in Jonny’s ribcage as Patrick sighs and half sits up in bed to flick on the television to some show with animated princess ponies.

Next, gentle fingers comb through Jonny’s hair, scratching at the back of his skull. “Babe.”

Jonny doesn’t lift his head from his pillow. “Hmm?”

“Get up.”

“No.”

Patrick pinches his forehead. “Yes.”

“No,” Jonny says grumpily. “You come back.” He reaches out to tug Patrick down into his arms, Patrick only mock resisting for an instant.

“Why is everyone in this household so damn bossy?’

Jonny laughs into his pillow as Lizzy turns around, telling them both to ‘shhh’ with the most intense of expressions.

“She gets that from you,” Patrick says in a hushed tone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jonny replies. “I’m extremely easy going and laid back.”

“Yeah, it only took you a thousand years, old man,” Patrick snickers, touching the salt and pepper hairs at Jonny’s temple.

“Ugh. Don’t talk about my gray spots. It’s bad enough I have to see them in the mirror.”

“Fortunately for you I like all of your spots. You silver fox,” he winks, leaning down to kiss Jonny’s chapped lips and morning breath.

They don’t take the kiss any farther, as much as Jonny would like to. He doesn’t need to be horny with their two-year-old in bed with them.

“We should’ve gotten up earlier,” he says, lips brushing over Patrick’s jaw.

“Chances to be had,” Patrick sighs and then murmurs ‘tonight’ as he gets up, heading for the bathroom.

Meanwhile Lizzy’s inched her way back to the end of the bed again, better to see the television from. She’s so entranced by the talking ponies she doesn’t notice Jonny move until he’s got her in his grip.

“Mornin’ pumpkin,” he says, kissing the mop of blonde curls in disarray all over her head, his fingers tickling gently at her sides.

“Papa!” She squeals, her bubbly little laugh bringing an automatic smile to Jonny’s face. It’s easily one of his favorite sounds ever.

“Guess who’s coming today?” he asks. She gives him a curious look, her tiny hands taking hold of his face. “Grand-Mère!”

“Gammere! Yay!” She cheers, clapping. “Now?”

“This afternoon. She’s going to bring you to papa and daddy’s game tonight.”

She takes his face in her hands again, expression melting into something hilariously solemn. “Skate fast, Papa.”

Every time he thinks he can’t love his kid more than he already does, she proves him wrong. Being a parent isn’t a cakewalk. He thought he knew what it meant to be selfless, to sacrifice, but Lizzy taught him the true meaning of those sentiments a thousand times over. As overwhelming, exhausting, and terrifying as it can be at times, she’s light of his life. He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“I sure will, babydoll,” he tells her, heart panging adoringly.

Patrick appears from the bathroom then, fresh faced and gorgeous.

“Who wants cheesy eggs and tomatoes for breakfast?”

Jonny and Lizzy both raise their hands like eager puppies wagging their tails.

“That’s what I thought,” Patrick grins.

*

When the team comes out for warmups, Jonny automatically scans the crowd for Lizzy. Of course Patrick’s already found her, sitting against the glass with Jonny’s mom and dad. David and Margot made the trip down too, Sonny in between them on her new phone.

Patrick’s standing in front of where Lizzy’s seated, hand against the glass and so very smug that she chose his #88 jersey to wear tonight.

Jonny skates up behind him, making circles in the ice and silly faces at his daughter to draw her attention to him. It works and he feels momentarily triumphant until Patrick bumps his side, looking amused and exasperated.

“She still chose mine, so I win,” he smirks.

Jonny frowns.

“Don’t give me that face. You score me a goal tonight and I’ll wear your jersey later. Deal?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees, tapping Patrick on the ass and taking off so he doesn’t end up doing something that will get them both in trouble.

He spends the rest of warmups going about his usual business, discreetly watching Patrick as he does a bit of stickhandling in front of a group of kids, flipping someone a puck, and generally being graceful and sexy in his natural habitat.

Lizzy’s watching him as raptly as everyone else, unable to keep her eyes off of him for long.

It reminds Jonny how lucky he is, that he gets to have this - Patrick, Lizzy, hockey, Chicago - all of it.

Maybe the road to here was rocky, marked with unexpected detours and hazards. Maybe he’s a little worse for wear now. Or maybe he’s stronger for it, more experienced, capable. It’s easier to measure the ways he’s changed by hockey than by the choices he’s made or the people he loves. His knees aren’t what they used to be. He’s slower now, his numbers are down, but he’s got some life in these limbs yet. And he’s not ready to quit fighting - for the puck, for the win, for all the breaths in between.

He’s ready to take to the ice for as many games as he can with Patrick beside him. It’s a good life he has here, a great life, and he doesn’t plan on missing a single moment of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My buddy S. made me a killer soundtrack for this fic that I stupidly forgot to link. [Please go listen here.](http://8tracks.com/boodreaus/break-up-make-up) It's amazing.
> 
>  *Spoilers for the end.
> 
>  [This is Patrick and Jonny's Lincoln Park house.](https://www.redfin.com/IL/Chicago/2212-N-Burling-St-60614/home/13350145)
> 
>  And this is [Lizzy](http://www.dalla.is/wp-content/2016/10/Barnamyndatokur13.jpg). <3


End file.
